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
he walks
with purpose
where you would take your time
wandering
wondering
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
stinging
steaming
deep sleepy coffee.
A mourning tear falls from the glass
as I reflect.
Nicci Haydon 
Wow! Great Poem ! Really powerfull.
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Very nice!
Thank you! 🙂
sob
Someone, it may or may not have been you, said my writing is very “English”, by which they meant melancholy. I think this poem does nothing to contradict that.
you too must be suffering from malaise.
But unlike you I can blame it on being English 😛
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way…
—Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon, Time