The cursed mind sees the possibilities of all things and turns, instinctively, to the dark.

 

The two used plates.

The two empty little plastic pots.

 

The possibilities:

The two plate, two fork,

Two pot possibilities.

 

Only two possibilities:

His, or theirs.

 

Hackles up

Stacking up evidence,

and me, backed up

against the wall by the door,

clutching a cup of steaming tea.

 

On the edge of leaving

the scene of the all, or nothing,

or the everything

this nothing could potentially mean.

 

The two plate, two fork, two pot possibilities.