I place them like always,

Yours on the left, mine on the right,

A small symmetry we never planned,

But somehow honored.

Each morning, I fill the kettle,

And let the steam rise slow.

Jasmine for you—

Hibiscus for me.

They sit between us,

Those two teacups—

Quiet as prayers,

Warm only for one.

And though your hands haven’t reached for yours in seasons,

I keep pouring,

Because letting it go,

Feels like losing you a second time.