The Last Cup Was Yours

I woke up today

To silence that wasn't new —

But still managed to sound louder

Than the morning birds ever could.

The kettle hissed,

But your mug stayed untouched.

The one with the chipped edge,

The one you called lucky.

I poured one cup out of habit.

The steam rose like a ghost,

Swirling in air you used to occupy.

It danced where your laughter lived.

The couch didn’t creak this morning.

The hallway didn’t echo your soft steps.

The day didn’t begin —

It just happened.

They say grief comes in waves.

But some days, it doesn’t wave at all —

It just sits.

Heavy.

Like unwashed clothes on the chair.

Like a book left open mid-sentence.

Like the pause in my throat

Every time someone asks,

“Are you okay now?”

No, I’m not.

I’m still learning to drink from cups

That weren’t yours.

Still learning how to sit

Without reaching for your hand

That isn’t there.

You used to hum in the kitchen,

Out of tune — always.

I’d tease you,

Call it the world’s saddest radio.

Now I’d trade a thousand songs

For one more off-key morning.

There’s a photo frame I haven’t dusted.

I like it that way —

The blur of grief makes your smile look alive.

Too sharp, and I might remember

That it’s just a picture,

And not you.

Your clothes still hang in the closet.

Not for memory.

Not for tribute.

Just because the silence would be louder

Without them.

I know it’s not healthy.

But grief is not a clean thing.

It stains.

It lingers.

It settles into fabric

Like the scent of your shampoo

Still clinging to your scarf.

People say,

“Time heals everything.”

But they forget —

Healing is not forgetting.

Healing is learning to live

With a limp in the soul.

I still hear your laugh

In other people’s joy.

It’s like catching perfume

On a stranger in the street.

Familiar. Cruel.

Hopeful, then devastating.

You were never loud,

But you filled every space.

Now every space feels louder

Because you're not in it.

Even silence seems to scream.

The hardest part isn't the loneliness.

It's remembering I wasn't always alone.

That once,

Someone warmed my mornings

With a look.

A breath.

A hand on my back

That said,

"I’m here. Always."

Now the only thing saying that

Is memory.

And memory lies sometimes —

Whispers things just to keep you breathing.

People ask me why I don’t move on.

I want to tell them —

I am moving.

Every single day.

But sometimes

Moving forward feels like walking

Backward

Through a house you once called home,

Touching walls

Hoping they remember

What you’ve forgotten.

I talk to you sometimes.

Quietly.

Not prayers.

Just updates.

As if you’re still in the next room,

Too far to hear,

Too close to forget.

They say I’ll find love again.

Maybe I will.

But it won’t be you.

It won’t be the way you brewed tea

Like it was a ritual.

Or how you cried during old cartoons.

Or how you held sadness

Like a baby bird — gently, but firmly.

Love may return.

But not like you.

Not you.

I live inside the echoes left behind,

Where time forgets, but I rewind.

You were not a moment — you were the thread,

And without you, even joy feels dead.



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