red-knighted date

She sits in the corner,

a red-knighted sweater draped over her shoulders,

its warmth a small fortress against the chill of the rain.

Her lips, painted the color of crushed cherries,

To the steam rising from her cup she carried

a quiet ritual, a habit turned sacred.

Outside, the world is blurred—

streets swollen with puddles,

sidewalks glistening in the somber light,

but inside, it’s as if time holds its breath,

waiting for the space between her thoughts

to settle into something real.

Burgundy nails tap the rim of the porcelain,

soft beats of longing,

as her eyes drift to the empty chair across from hers—

the one where he used to sit,

where he used to smile that crooked smile

and say, *"One more sip before the world calls us back."*

She does not cry.

Not here, not today.

Her hands curl around the warmth of the cup,

the smooth ceramic a pale echo of his touch.

She dreams of his laugh,

a sound that once filled this corner,

and in the hum of the rain,

she lets herself remember

how love had tasted like coffee,

strong and black,

before it grew cold,

before it vanished—

leaving only the shape of him

in the empty spaces between her breaths.