Tag: women who write

Once I found your laughter
inside an empty glass.

I put the glass to my mouth
and tasted nothing.

Still, I washed it
and put it back in the cabinet.
I did that for months.

Sometimes I took it down
just to see if anything had changed.

Nothing ever had.

But I knew your mouth had been there.
Somehow, that was enough.

One night I held it against my ear.

Your voice, maybe.
A breath.

There was nothing.
Just the glass.
Just my own breathing
coming back to me.

After a while,
I stopped taking it down.

Years later, I found it behind the plates.

I picked it up.

For one second,
I heard you laugh.

I put the glass to my lips again.

And this time—

Salt.

Not yours.

Mine.