Secret Cup

At night it confesses its porcelain rim,
a whisper of steam that counts the time of unspoken words,
collecting the prints of hands that hesitated.
The tea keeps deep memories, small wrecks of words,
the circle of the edge is a horizon where lips paused,
every teaspoon is a map of pauses that were never filled.
When the house falls silent, the cup sings softly,
a faint warmth that tastes of desire and kisses never given,
and the night places those flavors in the shadow, like an unuttered promise.