—the light feels paper-thin now, and every exhale looks like something trying to escape

This cup is for what rises and doesn’t return.

It rises first, before the sip,
the ghost of warmth, the fleeting lip
of breath that curls and disappears,
too soft to mourn, too near for tears.

The steam ascends, and names go with it,
half a dream, a face, a visit.
All that lingers, all that fades,
they find their way through small escapes.

You watch it climb, a silver script,
the handwriting of what was kept.
It trembles once against the light,
then thins to air, then isn’t quite.

You lift the cup. The heat’s half gone.
The taste is flat, the moment drawn.
Still, something hums beneath your chest,
a space the steam forgot, yet blessed.

📜 What Steam Forgets – The Recipe

Ingredients:

Instructions:
Pour while the room still holds its chill. Hold your face close to the rising steam. Let your thoughts dissolve into the air. Drink once, slowly, while watching what leaves. When the cup cools, you’ll know what stayed.