The coffee stains the paper,
your note curls at the edge.
The sunlight cuts in vapor across our quiet pledge.
Letters on the counter say,
no mornings drift away.
Your handwriting still knows where every silence goes.
The cup beside the letter still hums with borrowed heat.
You always wrote it better than words could dare repeat.
Letters on the counter say,
no mornings drift away.
Your handwriting still knows where every silence goes.
The ink
begins to fade,
but never what it made.
Between the lines,
till meaning redefines.
The page breathes soft and slow,
as if it wants to know
if love
was ever bound
by what we left around.
Letters on the counter say,
no mornings drift away.
Your handwriting still knows where every silence goes.
The ink falls into the day.