This morning I poured but the warmth felt so hollow

This morning I poured, but the warmth felt so hollow,

a spill on the table—dark stains drown my sorrow.

The steam curls like questions left hanging in air,

a mug full of solitude, heavy with care.

Each sip tastes of moments where silence held sway,

where coffee brewed comfort, then slipped slowly away.

It’s more than a drink, it’s a compass I sip,

a guide through the chaos, the jagged-edged grip.

I watch the dark swirl, as the past stirs and sways,

reminding me softly of simpler days.

Here, in the quiet, the world fades from view,

and the coffee sits cold, while the heart brews anew.