The Dull Ache of Morning

Woke up with it, already there,

a sort of gray film over everything,

like looking through old gauze.

No monsters, no falling, just a slow

pull, like the tide going out

and leaving too much behind.

Made coffee, the usual grind,

and saw the mug, still on the counter,

not mine, not yours, just a mug.

And it was still warm, somehow,

like someone had just set it down,

walked away for a second,

and wouldn't be coming back.

That was the dream. That was the whole

quiet, sinking, not-quite-memory

of it all.