The Aftertaste of Goodbye

I still make two cups of coffee,

though one always goes cold.

Habits don’t understand heartbreak—

they just repeat what love once taught them.

I still sleep on my side,

leaving space for the ghost of your warmth.

It’s not that I miss you,

it’s that I don’t know where to put the missing.

Every morning,

grief stirs the sugar into my cup

and whispers—

some endings never finish.