teacup, still warm _________________________ this teacup warms itself when held by sad hands. it glows faintly, a soft halo on the table—candlelight on a stormy evening. the warmth it spreads through the holder’s chilly hands is a remembered hug, a touch from someone long gone. it smells of vanilla and something harder to name, like the air of a home you haven’t stepped into for years, but still dream of. the gleam of porcelain deepens with sorrow, not out of pity, but recognition. it doesn’t ask questions or offer answers, it simply stays, quiet and steady, until the ache in your chest loosens enough to breathe.
