ROMANCE Poem: Love, War, and Leftover Coffee, by Chloe Rodriguez

I miss how you’d fall asleep
to World War Two documentaries,
like you were secretly training
for some imaginary war.
And I’d complain, of course,
because how dare you be so
charmingly predictable—
but honestly,
I think I was just jealous
of the way history could hold you
when I couldn’t.
Now it’s me,
drinking a whole pot of coffee
because I can’t stand the silence
of one cup.
It’s too much, too big—
too much like the way I loved you,
like I thought I needed to pour
myself into someone else
to feel real.
But no one told me
that the coffee gets cold
before you even notice.

I don’t miss the lies—
or the emotional Black Friday sales,
where I had to beg for a spot
on your list of priorities,
fighting for a bargain love
that never quite fit.
I don’t miss being second choice,
or, let’s be honest, third,
but I miss the way you’d hold me
like I was the last one left in the store
and you were already planning
your next big purchase.

But I’m not at war anymore,
not with you, not with myself
no more pretending this will all mean something,
no more fighting ghosts
we never had a chance to outrun.
We used to tear ourselves apart,
thinking it would make a difference,
thinking the mess would settle into something worth saving.
But it didn’t.

And sure,
there are days I think about the wars we waged
how we used to fight over everything,
and nothing—
how we swore we could change the world
but only ever tore down our own.

We threw ourselves into it
like soldiers into a battle they didn’t choose,
thinking maybe the casualties would somehow be worth it.
I don’t miss the chaos, but I remember it
the way we clung to each other like history’s worst chapters,

the way we swore we’d never let go,
even as we slipped through the cracks,
dying on the battlefield of us.
There was something about that intensity
that felt like we were living
like we were still writing the pages of our own story.
But today?

I don’t need the battle anymore.
I don’t need the victories we never claimed.
I’m done with the war we built in silence,
with the endless retelling of our own destruction.
I’ve learned to let the instant rations of it fade,
to let them become part of the history dirt that
doesn’t matter anymore.
These are the things we carry—
the wars we choose,
the ones we don’t,
the ghosts that shape us,
and the silences that fill the spaces where love used to be.

I hope history envelops you,
lets you rest among the stories
we’ll never finish telling,
and find peace in the rubble we left behind.
You’re somewhere in history,
fighting battles that never even happened,
while I’m here, holding a cold cup of coffee
and a second-choice life
I don’t know how to walk away from.
Because we carry everything,
whether we want to or not,
and maybe that’s all we’re ever meant to do.