One apartment, two coffee mugs.

The lips that used to caress this rim,

Leaving the sticky imprint of chapstick,

Are long gone.

But I remain.

There were caffeinated mornings

That I took for granted,

And idle chat

That I can’t recall,

Staining this place.

Like the spill from that fight,

Lingering on the table.

No matter how much I scrub at it,

I still see the ring.

It outlines an empty space

For what should have been there,

Like the boxed ring under my bed,

Which should have held your finger.

And, like my heart,

This mug is empty now.