Tapping

My silver spoon taps against that old, smudged porcelain cup.

It’s a part of its morning routine.

I made a friend today, clean as the white paint coating the walls,

This friend of mine accepts me whole.

The tapping on the cup becomes insistent,

My friend doesn’t mind,

which earns them more applause from the silver spoon,

It’s proud my friend is choosing to stay by me.

None of my quirks cause annoyance,

From the wailing that overtakes me in the nighttime,

as the stars shimmer in the moonlight,

To the hollow laughs that erupt my belly,

as I imagine the silver spoon speaking to me,

This friend of mine accepts me whole.

I tried to reach for their hand once, only to fall flat on my face,

The wind kissed the neck of neck, telling me, “it’s okay.”

My friend said touch isn’t required for our friendship to thrive, just belief.

So I believe in this friend of mine, who accepts me whole, to be as real.

Just as I believe in the silver spoon that tells me jokes in this old, forgotten house,

once it’s finished it’s morning ritual of tapping against the porcelain cup.

“I have friends,” I remind myself, as I awake to the wind howling in the distance,

“ I’m not forgotten, just misplaced.”