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.
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