The Warmth of an Overcast Morning

When I put my lips to the rim of the coffee cup, the words you left last evening are still lukewarm. Outside, a sky pressed down in gray slowly wets the road, and in each raindrop I turn over our night before. When I turn my head, an empty chair; only your plate on the table looks at me without a word. This morning stretches unusually long, so that before closing the door I look back once more. Overcast weather lowers every sound, and in that quiet, even without you, your scent grows clearer.