Last Brew

 

I still make two cups

out of habit.

One sits untouched 

cooling like the space

you left behind.

Your mug’s still chipped

on the rim you always kissed first.

You said it added character.

I said nothing,

just smiled

and watched you drink me in

between sips.

Now the aroma

wraps itself around my throat 

a soft choke

of memory and mocha.

Your laugh lives in the steam.

Your silence 

in the grounds.

It hits different now,

this coffee.

Still bold,

still dark,

but lonelier.

Like a lover

who shows up late

just to say goodbye.

I swirl what’s left

and think of that morning 

rain tapping,

you humming,

my hand on your back

like a prayer.

You always tasted

like espresso and almost.

And god 

what I wouldn’t give

to sip you one more time.

No sugar.

No cream.

Just you 

bitter and perfect,

exactly how I loved you.

©®Madhumita