The rings left by your coffee cups are still on my window ledge. I told you not to set them there, but inevitably, when we lay in bed, you had that cup of coffee beside you. Strong and black you said, the only way to drink it. Even sometime now I think I smell it, early in the morning, when the automatic pot used to start brewing.

I wonder, when does memory start to fade? When will I stop smelling coffee? When will the dent on your side of the bed even out? Still, I will leave the coffee rings.