The Ritual

I made it this morning

and I didn't drink it, ignoring

the caffeine, the steam,

and held the mug like it could redeem

me, felt the heat

transfer into my hands, so sweet,

felt it become proof that I'm alive.

Everything else has failed to survive.

The apartment is too quiet now.

The routines have scattered somehow.

The people I thought would stay

have become people who call less each day.

But the coffee stays the same.

The ceramic, the steam, the claim

that I can still pause,

still hold something warm without cause,

still create one small ritual

that hasn't changed, still functional.

It's not about the caffeine.

It's about what I mean

when I hold the mug,

when I feel the drug

of warmth and routine—

it means I'm still here, still seen,

still capable of survival.