Cup and Quiet

The cup hits the sink—a sharp crack—

a sound that slices through the quiet morning.

Steam curls like a soft sigh,

rising slow, gentle.

Outside, the world rumbles awake

with buses coughing and tires screaming,

but here, in this small kitchen,

there’s a pocket of stillness,

a breath held between heartbeats.

The chipped mug, dark inside,

holds more than bitter warmth.

It holds the pause before the day starts,

the quiet space where I gather myself,

the soft insistence of being here.