By Magdalena Mateo
The first rays of sunshine glitter against the mopped floor
A slight spring breeze pushes through the window
Drips of coffee echo in the kitchen
But I don’t even drink coffee
It sits dark inside the hand painted ceramic mug
The French vanilla creamer just inches away
The stolen Splenda packets leaning against the container
But I don’t even drink coffee
This is the way he liked it
He made it a point to wake up early
So he could take his time and enjoy every sip
I don’t even drink coffee
But this is the only way I feel close to him anymore
I’ll reach the bottom of the vodka bottle later
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