A Cup Left Out

A Cup Left Out

I find the cup on the table.

Cold tea rests in the bottom.

A pale ring circles the rim.

The air around it feels still.

Was it morning when it was left?

Was there a voice, a laugh, a silence?

The tea has cooled into memory.

It tastes of something unfinished.

I lift it, smell the faint sweetness.

Sugar dissolved, milk turned grey.

It feels like the ghost of a moment.

Like a hand once here, now gone.

Do cups remember those who hold them?

Do they long for the warmth of touch?

Or are they only vessels, waiting,

empty and patient, never asking?

I place it back where it was.

Quietly, as though silence might break.

The cup waits again, as all cups do.

For lips that may never return.