Stars in a Teacup

Memory fishes stars from a forgotten teacup.
The steam weaves a spiderweb of lights on the empty table.
Each light remains pinned to the rim, stubborn and slight.
Time smiles, and the cold coffee tells of the past.
The cup cools down, but the night holds the helm.
Beneath the bitter bottom, maps of roads shine in silence.
The stars whisper paths that have not yet been seen.
I gather that glow so as not to lose the dawn.