Rain and Remembrance

The coffee waits for me like an old friend
whose hands have always trembled slightly
today, from the thunder that stitches the sky,
like a wound the earth remembers.

Outside, the rain speaks
in the dialect of forgotten lovers,
and I, prisoner of the windowpane,
sip the dark confession of the beans.

Each drop, a memory.
Each sip, a peek inside an old wound.

Oh, how you used to curl your fingers
around the porcelain cup,
as if warming your hands
on the fire of my words.

Now, only the echo of you
remains in the steam,
rising like a ghost
that refuses to forget the flavor
of our mornings.

Thunder splits the silence,
not angrily, but like a truth
long denied.

And I sit here,
between yesterday and never,
drinking thoughts
from a cup filled with rain and remembrance