They say the place has grown hollow,
that memory cannot take root among ruins.
But I—
every time I close my eyes,
I find your coffee cup
still sitting there, unfinished,
just like our lives since you left.
I reach out for the walls that have vanished,
but they are gone.
Nothing remains but your jacket,
standing alone in the wind,
like the last standing wall.
Your jacket was a small home,
a shelter from the world’s bitter frost.
In its pockets you hid
childhood sweets,
a promise we never imagined would break,
and your voice calling my name.
But now I hear nothing
except the vast silence of the sky.
My dear uncle…
They wiped the address from every map,
but they could never erase
the scent of coffee
that still lives in my breath,
nor the warm pulse of your name
in my veins.
For martyrs do not leave us to loneliness.
They leave us
a cup of coffee we finish with tears and faith,
your jacket to wipe the dust of grief from our faces,
and a home the eye cannot see
but the heart inhabits—
living within us,
like a breeze
that whispers of spring.
June 27, 2026
An Unfinished Cup by Shoug Basem Mukhaimar
Image courtesy of Shoug Basem Mukhaimar
