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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.
Copyright ©
Saeed Koushan
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