I Stopped Waiting by the Kettle Light

Your mug is still here,

back of the shelf,

where the morning light can’t reach.

I keep washing it anyway,

thumb on the chipped rim,

soap that smells like lemons

and almost-belief.

On the counter:

a jar of sugar with a crooked label,

crumbs like small apologies,

a spoon that clinks too loud

in a quiet house.

Some days my head is a crowded room.

I open the window

just to hear traffic

prove the world keeps moving.

I used to read your silence

like scripture.

I used to call it “patience.”

But today I write my own label:

DO NOT RETURN TO WHAT SHRINKS YOU.

The kettle clicks.

Steam lifts, steady.

I pour,

and watch the tea darken—

not like a bruise,

more like soil getting ready.