What She Scratched

Her initials are scratched into the steel,

deep and permanent, they make it real—

a mark that says this thing is mine

before she left it behind.

I've used it every morning for months,

poured coffee, never thought once

about the name carved in the base,

about the ghost of her place.

This morning I held it to the light

and saw the letters shine bright,

her handwriting in metal now,

a claim I'd somehow forgot how

to see until today, until the sun

showed me what had always been done—

her name branded on something I own,

something I've made my own.

The coffee ring won't wash away,

a shadow that will always stay

of someone who left without taking

the one thing that's worth breaking.

I should throw it in the trash,

let it go, make a clean break, crash

it into pieces, be done with her ghost,

but instead I reach for it most

mornings, inherit her name,

drink her absence, play her game,

use this thing she marked as hers

until the marking finally blurs.