Morning Coffee

The coffee smelt exactly the same, my fingers ran over that same chip on the handle of the mug as it gently warmed my hands. Looking down I could see those familiar grooves in the kitchen table. My eyes were willing me to look upwards, my mind was willing them to stay down – to keep that sense of normality and familiarity. At some point it was inevitable that my eyes would drift upwards and see the gaping hole where he should be sitting, where his strong hands should be holding his own cup of coffee, but that cup will always stay in the cupboard now – I can’t bear to see it in another pair of hands if it will never again be in his.