A deeper cup.

A deeper cup.

The steam unfurls, a lazy, white-gray ghost,
carrying the scent of what is held most—
the quiet hour, the table set for two,
the empty space that now is filled by you.
A mug, a porcelain planet, warm in hand,
holds secrets brewed in some forgotten land.
But your story is the richness in the pot,
a memory of a time and a forgotten spot.
The clink of spoon, a bell to start the tale,
of journeys taken, and a sunlit trail.
Your words pour out, the color of the brew,
a bitter truth, a flavor, sharp and new.
The face is watched, the shifting of the light,
as you recount a distant, vivid night.
The sugar stirred, a sweeter, softer turn,
on lessons learned and bridges that have burned.
The cup grows cool, the final chapters told,
a narrative more precious than fine gold.
And all that's left is stillness, in the air,
and the quiet comfort of a story shared.