A Sip, and a Farewell

I drank coffee from your cup— still warm where your mouth had been. The rim held the print of your lower lip. Now I taste rust on the edge of every spoon, how your fingers drummed our kitchen counter, restless. In checkout lines I hear your laugh—unique, familiar. I turn to see a stranger buying oranges nearby. For a fleeting moment, I forget you're not here. Time moves like your mother's clock— the one that skipped every third beat. I count the spaces, measure silence between what was and what will be. You were the sudden fever that broke at dawn, and I, the rumpled sheets still holding your outline, still learning to lie smooth again. Your voice lives in the static between radio stations— almost there, then fading. I am learning the weight of your absence, how it settles in my chest like coins in a pocket— heavy, familiar, softly ringing as I step forward into morning.