Last Year's Chocolate

So you froth
I drink and you bemoan
I blow your top
Off you go again.

I make you stop
And drink chocolate;
The Bittersweet comfort --
Like you, transitory --
Hot with your lot.

I like your licking lips;
I offer my cup;
Froth caked from last night's top.
You drain the dregs, and look up.

There's nothing left.
There never was.
The late-backed cake
He finds -- well done --
A little brittle to the touch.