You were at the bottom of my first coffee today.
Like yesterday, when you were
under the last towel
that I pulled up from the basket.
At the ends of things, you are.

Before you were gone, the curtains moved.
They put all the familiar drafts in with you
and gave me your key.
Mis-sorted with the teaspoons,
our fourth date.  A February evening
laden with cobblestone
that doesn’t seem to fit in
with the forks.

If I could just tell you
what I thought of the cocoa,
maybe I could find a place for it.
I am told it will be months still
before I stop cooking too much pasta,
or taking down two mugs.