He sits in their kitchen with mingled aromas,
where creatures arise from coffee mug steam.
He has only his hands to hold up his head,
he came from where small talk,
to large loss has led.

But then, oh so willingly,  
He was trapped among many fine things.
The wind is now searching to trace out a path,
While sunlight glints on a shiny juice glass.
He can see with a twist of a dull butter knife,
the ease of drawing such strawberry blood,
his trembling hands ready to spin a red thread,
on her hot buttered toast, or a bagel instead.
His lips remain silent with thunderous cries,
eyes resting on windows with live oaks outside.

And so she said, “my love”,
“there should be no more to life than just this.”
Watching her hesitate he stirs hot coffee.
Then curls his hands around hers and her mug,
while time ticks through the day just begun.
The fresh morning mist a subtle mosaic,
lit by the sun preserved with such color,
as a new summers leaf,
with a yellow lace flower,
such was their love once discussed.

Once drenched in love,
Soaked softly in sun, this moments relief,
Spins slowly across his kitchen motif,
until a breeze blows in to surround him,
scented words of lost love, a hope yet revived,
in a fragrant unbalanced wisp of his life.
The past cannot die without a death,
If only he could heal her with more coffee,
While patiently he waits,
for other such fools to fall in love.