you sit alone
your cup of coffee
you will say to anyone who does not matter,
ignoring their transformation with the gain of this little fact
because you hate the sight
of an empty cup)
rests on the table before you.
i tell you, i list, all the things in your cup:
i see the sunlight, filling it to the brim,
i see patterned leaves, sifting shape, shifting colours,
i see a few drops of a cloud (but it rises up to embrace you)
i see a blood-red petal from a rose
(a sacrifice to fulfill a wish)
and i see a dream.
elusive, clouded, drifting lazily,
playing games with the wind…
your fingers reach out
(my eyes close)
your fingers brush against this dream
(and you brush against my fingers)
"do you see it?" i ask you,
"there is a cloud between us, pregnant with hope" -
"and there is a star," i say, "falling from your lashes"
slowly sinking into your cup
as you take another sip.