Morning Remnants

The kitchen is quiet, a mug’s warmth remains,

the scent of old coffee stirs memories' chains.

An untouched plate holds yesterday’s toast,

as morning’s rhythm becomes less than a ghost.

I wonder how mornings drift quietly past,

as I sip the cold coffee, forgetting the last.

The warmth fades away, just a soft, bitter taste,

leaving echoes of breakfast, a ritual misplaced.