The steam curled soft above the rim,
a quiet fog,
a gentle hymn.
The table held the heat I cored,
like something small I still adored.
Even silence tasted kind,
in little sips I'd almost mine,
the way the warmth could still remain,
without a name,
without a claim.
The spoon tapped once and didn't stir,
as if the day forgot to blur,
but in that stillness I could trace,
a kind of comfort,
not a place.
Even silence tasted kind,
in little sips I'd almost mine,
the way the warmth could still remain,
without a name,
without a claim.
Some things linger,
barely shown,
but hold a weight that's all their own.
A sip,
a pause,
the window's light,
fell on my wrist just right that night,
and nothing
more was asked of me,
than simply sitting,
letting be.
Even silence tasted kind,
in little sips I'd almost mine,
the way the warmth could still
remain, without a name, without a claim.
Now joy is made to shine,
some stays in hands,
and that's just fine.