The coffee is gone, But the warmth refuses to leave. It lingers in my hands, The way your presence does in memory. I sit longer than required, Letting silence finish its sentence. The table wears our almost-history, Polished by possibility. Outside, the world resumes ambition, Cars, clocks, obligations. Inside, I choose slowness. I imagine your voice saying my name, Not loudly Just enough to count. Love doesn’t always arrive With fireworks or certainty. Sometimes it slips in quietly, Takes a seat, And waits to be noticed. Even now, With nothing left to drink, I am full. This must be what hope feels like: Not urgent, Just real.
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