Even my ramen feels my ache,
each slurp a weight i can't unmake.
The broth is warm, yet tastes like rain,
a quiet mix of love and pain.
The potato stares, so soft, so still,
as if it knows i've lost my will.
It's strange how food can share my cry,
how even soup can ask me "why."
The world around reflects my chest,
the ache that never finds its rest.
Each spoon, each sip, each gentle chew,
becomes a memory of you.
I don't know why it hits this way,
why grief decides to sit and stay.
Perhaps because i let it through,
and feel the loss of what was you.
Yet in this taste of quiet sorrow,
there blooms a hope for some tomorrow.
For even pain, so sharp, so true,
still feels like love,
because it's you.