No Residue

An old hymn, tinny from the radio,

playing a tune I knew. It stirred

my tea, slow circle, watching the flow

as sugar, grain by grain, got blurred.

Into the lukewarm amber,

disappearing, not quite gone.

Just changed, a faint remember

of sweetness, then it's dawn.

Or not. Just the light from the kitchen.

No grand explosion, no breaking sound.

Just a quiet, slow submission.

Something once solid, no longer found.

Just tea. And the taste is different now.

Less sharp. A little more bland.

I stir it again, somehow,

to understand.