The cheap mug chipped rim

The cheap mug, chipped rim,

mustard yellow from a thrift store bin.

I pour the boiled water, hot and thin,

over the brown granules, stir them in.

Then the sugar, white like tiny prayers,

silver spoon, a clinking in the stale air.

Watch it cloud, then clear. Not a sudden drop,

but a slow fade, right from the top.

Like when I was small, kneeling on that wood,

Sunday mornings, everything felt good.

Now the words are just words, thin and bare,

a taste that's gone, a space that isn't there.

Just the empty warmth, a bitter trace,

where something sweet used to fill that place.

And the spoon, still stirring, long after it's gone,

just the sound, dragging on and on.