I made two cups, as I once did—
forgetting, for a breath, you hid
your heart behind a closing door,
and said you couldn’t love me more.
The silence hit like something thrown.
You left the keys. I stayed alone.
No screaming storm, no final plea—
just absence where your smile should be.
Your chair remains, I can’t sit there.
Your scent still clings to sweatered air.
I wash your cup, then hold it tight—
and dry it with my sleeve at night.
I never thought you’d go this way:
no fight to lose, no need to stay.
Just “take care, love” and one last kiss—
the kind that doesn’t taste like “miss.”
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