Tea cools in the cup,
not forgotten, just waiting,
a soft reminder, heavy with memory.
Steam rises, swirling, and I am drawn back—
to hands around porcelain, warmth
held tight in palms as if it could seep in,
make me whole.
Here, milk clouds bloom, spreading, fading,
like fragments of words
spoken softly, barely touched,
but deep as they settle.
A sip—
and all the small moments awaken:
a laugh at dawn,
the quiet glance across a crowded room,
or fingers brushing past in a way that meant everything.
It’s just tea, just leaves and water and warmth,
but the way it fills,
the way it stays—
it’s something closer to love
than I’d ever thought it could be.
