The Silent Cup of Tea

Every morning, she folds herself
into the ritual of water and fire,
a quiet alchemy of patience,
where silence seeps through the kettle’s whistle.

Two cups wait on the table—
sisters in porcelain,
mirrors of a love that once lingered,
one trembling with steam,
the other untouched,
its emptiness louder than prayer.

She stirs sugar into solitude,
watching the spoon trace circles
like orbits around a vanished sun.
Her lips lean toward the rising steam,
and she whispers confessions into its ghostly arms:
regrets too brittle for paper,
longing too raw for air.

The steam listens,
curling, bending,
lifting her secrets into the ceiling,
carrying them higher, higher,
to where no ears exist,
to where memory alone
knows how to cradle sorrow.

The untouched cup watches quietly,
its rim aching for warmth,
its hollow belly echoing with absence.
Yet it stays,
like an old friend who never leaves,
like a shrine that needs no worshipper.

She breathes,
she sips,
she waits for nothing—
yet every morning she repeats the ritual,
as though faith itself is steeped in tea,
as though love can remain
in the simple persistence
of pouring for two,
even when one cup
will never be raised.

And the steam—
gentle thief of secrets—
rises into the stillness,
carrying her truths
to the unlistening sky.

- Khushi Kaul