I look at my hands, I start my day realizing that the mug handle melts and the tea spills, my hands strangle the center of the mug.
Once it dulls down to molten, it will be light again, as in my routine, but now it glows from its roots not only from my bias towards it. I was bore empty, and empty, I chose a flowered mug to have my consolation tea in. as persevering as cleaning up after seemed to be, I find the courage to not think about it.
I pause like the wind after it blew through my hair untangling each and every matted thought, giving it enough time for it to realize that it can be held together only by the wind, that wind that curated parts of me and dispersed the rest into stars. both of our saviors were the same, both of our salvagers were the same.