The Empty Cup

This cup was once full.

Curls of white steam lifting from the black surface

Rippling with breath and the tremble of nervousness.

It once warmed my palms,

Pressed joy into my cold veins.

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Its emptiness is stark.

Some mornings, when the fog hugs the home

And memories fuzz,

I can feel the weight of its fullness in my hands,

See it on the trees like winter berries.

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It isn't there anymore.

The berries have fallen, rotted, and left fallow seeds behind.

My hands are empty.

There is no warmth to ease the frost in my blood

Nor are there dreams to heat my thoughts.

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Where are the dreams we spent piecing together?

There is an abyss where warm Sunday morning coffee

Made its delicate home

Out of tree branches, laughter, and too-long pyjamas.

Where is the memory of that crooked smile,

The uneven path to a future?

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Emptied.

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I slept with the black shadow of a winter eclipse

And drank the warm dreams of summer lightning bugs

From pale lips glistening with gathered words

That I had dropped into my cup,

Spilled into the dead of night.

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The moss that gathered in your eyes has dried and gone,

Leaving an absence so acute

I have no recourse but to flounder,

Drown in an empty cup full of invisible moments,

Memories of twinkling eyes dead by sunrise.

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Where are you resting now?

Which star shall I track to prove I have not forgotten?

My hands are too cold to reach through the abyss

And my spirit too weak to plunge into the depths.

So tell me, tell me please where in this night sky are you hiding?

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I want to gather the morning dew from your lips and taste

The honeyed spice of your lingering dreams.

These shadows are more corporeal than my memories

But I know you are there, within some hidden cove,

Waiting for the breath of sunrise to thaw our frozen, emptied cups.

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Silver Serpent Books

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