One Last Cup

In the tender cradle of this morning,
we sit, you and I,
cupping the warmth of coffee mugs
as though they hold the pulse of the world.

Each sip is a quiet vow, a slow dance of steam curling upward,
weaving itself into the soft threads of dawn.
The sunlight spills, hesitant, through the window,
its golden tendrils catching dust motes in a fragile, glowing suspension—
a moment so delicate, it aches.

I want to gather this stillness,
press it between the pages of my heart like a flower too tender to bloom twice.
Your eyes meet mine, and the clink of our mugs is a language only we speak—
a hymn to the nectar that warms our throats, the divine quiet that wraps us whole.

The house holds its breath, the little monsters still lost in dreams,
their chaos tethered to sleep’s gentle leash.
This pot of coffee, dark and endless, is ours to drain,
each sip a rebellion against time’s relentless march.

But soon—too soon— the world will stir,
and we will don our armor once more,
stepping into the fray of grown-up things,
the weight of days that demand our courage.

Yet for now, my love, let us linger in this sacred pause.
One last cup, one last moment where silence is enough,
where you and I are enough.