The Breath of the Empty Cup

Silent now, upon the table,
the cup that drank the day,
but a subtle warmth still
keeps around its walls.
Not of steam, nor of scent,
but a memory that bends.

A slow, small breath
that no mouth draws in.
It is the dense sound of its rim
when the morning turns.
The ceramic guards
a soul that does not speak.

It keeps the smiles consumed,
the silenced words,
a small mute cosmos
between lips barely touched.
It waits, perhaps, for the dew
or a new ritual that will unfold.