Dreams at the Bottom

Silence sets down the cup and reads the dreams from the coffee’s depths.
The liquid, now cold, holds a map of hidden desires.
The vapor’s mist whispers to the trembling fingers.
Each tremble becomes a word the hand recognizes.
Silence tells them in a low voice, without hurry.
The trembling fingers grasp visions’ fragments and become keepers.
Beneath the cup’s edge, a street ignites with tiny lights.
The table turns into a dream journal, penned with bitter scent.
Silence sees roads without names, scenes of a possible tomorrow.
The coffee, now cold, guards promises that return.
The fingers trace constellation paths upon the polished wood.
Silence listens, noting every note with gentle light.
When the sip returns, the spell dissolves, leaving only breath.
The hands grow still, but the dream remains, curious and discreet.
Silence closes the page without closing the memory.
And upon waking lingers the sweet tongue of remembrance.