Coffee

By Aria D’Amico

The coffee goes cold slowly,

without making a sound.

I wrap my hands around the mug the way I used to hold you, trying to keep something warm for just a little longer.

The steam rises, a soft ghost that disappears before I can decide if it reminds me of you.

I don’t drink it.

I just watch the dark surface,

like an unspoken truth on the table between us.

I lift it to my lips, out of habit,

forgetting there’s nothing left that tastes like you.