Coffee splatters a dark bloom

Coffee splatters, a dark bloom

on the pale counter.

My hand, without asking,

snaps to attention.

Reaches for the space

where the dish rag lived.

That precise spot,

just to the left of the sink.

Nothing there. Just air.

My fingers curl, shaped

around a phantom square of terry cloth.

It's been a month since we moved it.

But the body remembers.

Or pretends to.

Leaving a small, stupid ache

in the empty space.