The Fourth Cup

I brew four cups of coffee in the morning.
We finish three–
And the fourth cools.
In front of a chair
No one sits on.

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They say I am forgetful
But I remember to brew it–
For you.

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You–
Who would sit,
Stoic,
Silent
Never said why you stayed out late–
Who she was
Or who I am.

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And I–
Who smiled, hugged,
Muted questions.

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Silence won.
The coffee–
Cold.

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No sorries.
No quarrels.
Just coffee.
Cold.
Acidic.

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This morning, I drank the fourth cup.
It stung the tongue–
Sour acid
That burned,
Never washed
Away.

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