Midnight Soup Melancholy

In the hush of the night, with the world feeling thin,

I open a can, where the quiet begins.

The lid tears like a sigh, a soft pop and gasp,

steam curls in the air, in my hands, a warm clasp.

Alone at the table, memories stir in the broth,

a taste of forgotten, of dreams sloughed off.

Each slurp feels like comfort, like fingers on skin,

at midnight, the soup is the solace I’m in.

The spoon clinks against metal, an echo of time,

a reminder of moments, of reasons to rhyme.

And the house wraps around me, a blanket of night,

where I sip on my thoughts, chasing shadows with light.