That coffee cup breathes like you,
blowing out slowly against the lips of strangers,
who press between you and your insecurities.
The laundry comes out warm and still smells like you.
Reminds me of that night before we held on between cotton sheets and sweaty palms.
I remember the coffee I brought you that next morning.
The one you never drank.
When I asked why, you looked at me in the eyes and said you were high enough on the love you felt in your heart.
I wonder still, if that love was mine or hers.
