teacup

my cup of tea has

a tiny purple flower

painted delicate on china.

the worn out golden rim

glows graceful in the sunset,

rippling in the wind.

my elbows feel cold on the

rusted steel railing,

the faded green paint peeling off;

my fingers feel warm.

the salty blue taste of

the ocean before me

spreads into forever,

singing her melancholy

song of wind like a chant

long forgotten, but never lost.

the clouds in my teacup,

they dream about you, my dear storm.