for those who sip between worlds

Morning begins with a grind,
beans crushed,
light rising.
Steam curls like a hymn,
and the mug warms your palms
as if to say:
stay.

Mourning begins with a stillness,
not absence,
but gravity.
The same steam, slowed.
The same mug,
heavier in the hand.

Morning is the clink of spoon on ceramic,
the sun threading through blinds,
the first sip,
bright,
awake,
a promise.

Mourning is the breath held before the sip,
the way memory edges the tongue,
the bitter that refuses to fade.

You drink both.
You carry both.
The day opens,
not beyond grief,
but beside it.

And somewhere
between the light on your cheek
and the ache in your chest,
coffee becomes
communion.