There is a coffee stain on the windowsill
where someone has waited anxiously
for someone else to come home.
The streets are quiet and haunted,
no whispers of life left:
most of them sleep with murmurs
and it’s in this darkness, panic can grow.
Staring at the call log and unread messages,
begging and praying-
Please. Please come home.
It is unfair to torture the soul so.
Because deep down, it knows,
like the bitter taste of that coffee,
they are never coming home.