This morning, the air was quiet,
the kind of quiet that follows a dream,
half warm, half aching.
I reached for the mug without thinking,
its warmth a comfort in my hands,
its scent rising like a memory
I hadn’t asked for, but welcomed anyway.
The first sip was dark,
bold as a truth I hadn’t spoken.
A curl of cream swirled through it,
softening the edge,
a gentle deception,
like the way you used to laugh
after an argument,
making peace taste sweet again.
There was sugar too, just enough,
the way you liked it when you made it for me.
That sweetness lingered on my lips,
not just the sugar,
but something else,
the echo of your last kiss,
still tracing the shape of my mouth
like it had never left.
The bitterness came next,
as it always does,
sudden, full, undeniable.
It rushed in like your absence,
fast and sharp,
the kind of taste you can’t ignore.
But the froth,
light and sweet,
rose to meet it,
just as memory rises
to soothe what reality bruises.
And there I sat,
coffee cooling between sips,
heart warming between thoughts,
your kiss, the cream,
the bite of loss,
the balm of remembering.
Even in the ache,
there was a sweetness,
a quiet joy folded into the sadness.
And I smiled...
not because it didn’t hurt,
but because it still tasted like love.
©®Madhumita
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