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Alchemy in a Cup

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Summary:
2025

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.

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