The last object

I stand, a lone sentinel, in dust and whispering weeds,

A tarnished teacup, chipped and worn, where laughter used to breed.

My china skin, once smooth and bright, reflects the dying sun,

A shard of memory from a life that's tragically outrun.

I recall hands, so warm and strong, that cradled me with care,

Steaming mornings, gentle sips, a love beyond compare.

The clinking symphony of spoons, the murmur of soft speech,

A symphony of human life, just out of silent reach.

I've witnessed birthdays, whispered jokes, and tears that stained my rim,

Celebrations, quiet moments, a love that burned so dim.

The house, once vibrant, filled with warmth, now echoes with despair,

A hollow shell of what it was, a burden I must bear.

The wind whispers tales of vanished days, of lives cut short and fast,

A chilling silence hangs like fog, a future that won't last.

I yearn for the touch, the warmth, the murmur of a name,

But solitude's my only friend, a lonely, hollow game.

Yet, in the quiet of the night, beneath the watchful moon,

I dream of hands that lift me high, a gentle, joyful tune.

Perhaps one day, a different touch, a world reborn anew,

Will fill this cup with life once more, with hope, and morning dew.