This poem is taken from the beginning of my short story collection, “Pittsburgh Tales“.
I catch my breath and
think of us, the way things were.
The face is yours
but when he walks
where you would take your time
you saw the things
that others missed
your eyes enflamed as you explained the beauty
in the simple acts of life.
But you’re gone.
The heat against my lips is only
deep sleepy coffee.
A mourning tear falls from the glass
as I reflect.