She sipped from the porcelain cup
She’d rescued from a seaside garage
So that the saucer he’d accidentally widowed
From last year’s silly stunt
Would have a match again.
The coffee crema swirled in her irises
As her goals for the day and her hopes for the evening
Bubbled out from her.
He listened, sipping from the mug
He always chose because it was sturdy,
But mostly because
It was a birthday gift from her.
The old man lowered himself onto the bench,
Decades etched onto hands that curled just right
Around his chipped but perfectly usable mug,
Steaming with coffee
From the thermos he’d prepared at home.
He listened, their favourite dark roast aroma
Reaching out to her espresso-hued spot,
And filled the silence in between
With his goals for the day and his hopes for the evening.
He woke up in a bed that felt less empty
And with hands that felt less lined.
He listened, the silence different this time
In the warmth it held between the bedroom walls
They planned to paint the day after
A tomorrow they never got around to.
He turned with relief,
And found himself sinking into her irises,
Already brimming with joyful anticipation
Of coffee and all its velvety moments.
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