Last Drip

The thermos tipped—a slow farewell,

a silver bead clings at the brim.

Cold lingered where the warmth once fell,

a hesitant, shivering hymn.

It drips, a quiet reluctant note,

dark against the cracked countertop.

Fog still clings to breath and coat,

as silence pulls the warmth to stop.

I watch the last drop hesitate,

slip slow, a small defeat.

The cold that’s never quite too late,

a winter’s faint heartbeat.