As if the cup has learned the weight of goodbye.
The steam rises softly, carrying
Words I never found the courage to say.
Morning arrives with familiar light,
Yet every sunrise feels slightly borrowed,
Like the sky remembers a version of us
That the earth has quietly forgotten.
The chair across the table stays patient,
Collecting silence instead of conversation.
Even the clock walks on tiptoe,
Afraid to disturb the ghosts between its ticks.
I trace circles on porcelain edges,
Searching for answers in cooling bitterness.
Some memories dissolve like sugar,
Others settle stubbornly at the bottom.
Perhaps that's what love becomes—
Not a fire, nor an endless storm,
But the warmth left in an empty mug,
Fading slowly against waiting hands.
So I finish what remains,
Not because I am ready to leave,
But because every ending teaches the heart
How to carry another beginning.
And still, tomorrow,
I'll brew another cup,
Knowing hope has always tasted
A little like coffee—
Bitter at first,
Then quietly enough to keep living.
