March 28th by Katherine J. Zumpano

it’s 6pm and I’m drinking

black coffee on the porch and watching the rain

drip from the roof’s edge and

I’m trying not to think of you but I am

thinking of you –

of that unrestrained laugh, “so unladylike,” I teased you,

breaking through those soft lips, lips that used to wake me

with coffee-stained kisses. and I’m imagining you

sitting on the steps in front of me, rain-soaked shorts

and fingernails full of coffee grounds and soil. and

I’m remembering the concentrated crinkle of your brow

as you read recipes for tiramisu, remembering how

we drank all the brandy instead and danced,

day drunk and in love, around the living room.

and I’m picturing your fingers curled

around your favorite coffee cup, the same fingers that used to

caress my flesh, twist in my hair. and I’m hearing your voice

in my head telling me, “you’re the only girl I’ve ever

met who doesn’t like coffee,” and I’m hearing your voice

telling me you don’t love me anymore – and I’m drinking

black coffee at 6 pm on the porch in the rain

because I never liked its bitterness before I lost you but now

I can’t forget you and I don’t want to and this

is all I have left.

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Katherine J. Zumpano (she/hers) is a pisces, poet, and recent college grad. She's a staff contributor for The Aurora Journal, and a poetry editor/social media manager for Dollar Store Mag. She lives in Bellingham, WA, with her partner and houseplants. Follow her on twitter and instagram: @katzumpano