I am
the steam
rising from the rim,
a coil of smoke
that tastes like recklessness
and the faint ache
of sweetness
you didn’t expect.
I am
bitter
and burning,
then honeyed
and soft,
a shape-shifter
in milk
and shadow.
I overflow.
I drip.
I linger.
Some sip me slow,
some gag at the edge
of my flavor,
some never touch me at all.
I do not mourn.
I do not change.
I am
the swirl of dusk
in a teacup,
the warm tremor
along your spine,
the hush of sugar
melting
where it shouldn’t.
I steep
in myself,
always,
sometimes too long,
sometimes just enough.
I will not dilute,
will not pour myself
into a mold
that does not fit
the shape of me.
I am many cups in one:
dark roast,
wild honey,
milk foam,
shadow,
light.
I am loud,
soft,
overflowing,
empty,
all at once.
And if you do not taste me,
if you do not linger,
I will still be delicious
exactly as I am.








Passionately penned, CG. Excellent imagery and dynamic wordplay all throughout this write my friend. Nicely done. Appreciate you.
Damian