Death and coffee

I sit here, comfortable, caffeinated, exhausted
channeling the woman that once was - the woman I want to be
trying in vain to write something down
beyond the do-re-mi-fa-so and so on of all my other work-
pieces I rehash and rearrange until they become boring and I change keys-
waiting for something to write itself
while its cold and warm and cold again
and I stare at the far wall,
rehearsing old, half-forgotten tap sequences in my head
searching for the hole in the lid of the cup with my tongue
so my eyes can remain happily out of focus,
careful not to drip coffee on the blouse that I bought in a rush
before I realized it's just like the ones she used to wear
and that made me smile-
that I did it without effort or thought-
and I wonder if tonight is the night I just fall asleep
or if it will be tomorrow night
until it all tapers off and I go numb again
until I'm not anymore
and the blouse stops making me smile.