The fireplace cracks with bursts

of soft, nutmeg wood

as the orange hue extends

its heat against the white sofa.

The same sofa for the chilling,

rain days reserved for us

when we would lay intertwined

with a thick, plaid blanket

and it was enough.

You made morning coffee,

one cup for you, one cup for me.

Always gave me the first cup, so no

coffee grits would coat the bottom,

staining it.

Stumbling from the kitchen,

placing the fragile mugs on the carmel

coffee table. Forgetting they wanted

to be consumed. I always returned

mine to the cookery.

On the chestnut coffee table,

now long cold, your cup still presents

itself while the creamer curdled

at the tip of the liquid.

I sit, engulfed on this unpigmented sofa,

the heat radiating off the fireplace doesn't reach

as far as it did, the plaid blanket is out

of my reach, folded and unmoveable.

I don’t remember the last time I was warm

you haven’t been home in

months.