The Second Cup

September 8, 2026

Locks click twice now, force of habit,
even when nobody’s coming up the stairs.

I tell the mirror I’m fine before it has time to ask,
get dressed in a hurry so it doesn’t catch me still.

Face turns toward the window whenever footsteps slow outside,
I count them past the door, exhale when they keep going.

Everyone who gets close eventually hears it,
my voice going flat and careful, like I’m reading it off a card.

I still leave the second cup on the drying rack,
though nobody here has needed it in months.

Sultry noon curdles into grey by four most days,
the kind of sky that can’t commit to one mood either.

A knock comes sometimes. I count to ten before I move,
like the door might forget I’m home if I wait long enough.

Barometer dropping in my chest before it drops outside,
I feel the storm coming before the weatherman does.

I want the rain and the closing door to be different things,
one leaves a rainbow I never catch in time, the other leaves nothing.

Tuesday the sun broke through for maybe six minutes,
I stood in the kitchen and let it hit the back of my neck.

Cup’s still on the rack. I rinse it anyway most mornings,
not sure yet if that’s habit or something closer to hope.

Hoping the next knock finds the door already open,
not promising I’ll get there. Just hoping I’m learning how.