A Cup Full of Yesterday

The chipped rim whispers of mornings gone by,

Of steam curling upwards like ghosts in the sky.

The glaze, once bright, now softened with years,

Holds cracks like a map of laughter and tears.

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I lift it—still warm, though the brew’s run cold,

A relic of stories too precious to hold.

Your thumbprint remains where the handle curves tight,

A fossil of touch in the pale morning light.

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The first bitter sip—oh, how you’d pretend

To wince as you stirred sweetness in to no end.

The sugar’s all gone, but the taste lingers on,

A sweetness dissolved, though the flavor is gone.

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They say time will blur every joy, every sorrow,

But this cup fills with more the longer I borrow.

Not porcelain—just clay, flawed and plain,

Yet it brims with the past like a slow, steady rain.

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So I drink, and I wait, though the dregs may run deep.

Memories never truly fade, after all, they steep.