The Voice-less Song of Empty Porcelain

The cup, now light, lays out its story:
a sip, the last, dissolved every vapor.
The white rim, mute, holds no more memory
of the tepid meeting, of its intimate warmth.

Yet a wave vibrates, an almost arcane echo,
in the porcelain shell, thin and shining.
It is not a sound of farewell, nor a lament that deceives,
but the discreet pulse of a present absence.

It is the naked resonance of a space that was,
the internal design, never heard before now,
that reveals its form to the nothingness that held it up,
a brief whisper, a secret that dwells.