Every morning, I reach for the cup. It rests perfectly in my hands — the way yours once did, fitting into mine.

I still lift it to my lips, expecting the warmth to kiss me back.

But when I taste it…

it's cold.

It's always cold.

I tell myself, it's just coffee.

But it isn't, is it?

Because what I really miss

isn't the warmth of the drink.

And yet, here I sit, morning after morning, sipping from a cup that no longer loves me back.

A cup of cold coffee.