The ceramic cup sits directly on the coffee table.

The hot moisture seeping from the base sure to leave a circle shaped reminder upon the wood.

I don’t care.

Steam shoots from the clear liquid within the cup, one form transforming to another, ghosting its former state, adding particles to and changing the air it moves to, ever so slightly.

Ripples are seen on the surface of the water in the delicate cup. They occur in time with the throbbing, insistent thrum of the base. The cup trembles and a desperate wail rattles the  porcelain.

The wisps of steam change from jutting white spires to languid translucent swirls upon the liquids surface. A quick feel test though, assures the core temperature is perfect.

This isn’t for energy. It’s not for nerves.  It’s not for sleep. It’s not to be social. It’s not to add honey to, nor milk. It isn’t antioxidant. And it’s certainly not herbal.

The water shudders at the initial submersion, and the rust colored tendrils spread from the immersion site.

The water shifts from clear, to red-copper, to mahogany, to black.

It’s steeped hatred. It’s infused disappointment. It’s saturated with frustration. It’s laden with broken promises. It’s full of lies, manipulation, and deception. It’s rife with bitterness.

I leave it in as long as possible.

Then I drink deeply.

Humbly Yours,

J