A sugar cube. A sweet Lump.
A sweet lump of sorrow.
She mulled over the coffee.
The bitter coffee. Unsweetened. Made inexpertly by young hands.
It could have been anything.Anger. Jealousy. Sorrow.
But it was sweet. And it melted into a brown, piece of cloth.
Stained by the coffee.
But she , unlike her, didn't rip the cloth apart.
She loves the fire. She , like him, loves to be singed.