MOURNING CUP

He always had it black:
A nostalgia of sweetness
Poured into my china cup,
Steaming cold.

Fresh scent of white smoke
From yesterday’s puff
Opium-like to taste
At first sip.

Warm streaks of morning greeting
Pounding hard on close lids
To flutter open
A colder waking.

© Gheeneil

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