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Syllables curl; silk sheens the crescent spoon drips into black— straight cut— 6 a.m. Half-awake: a hex— night grows legs, circles the room; gravity follows with a broom. I wake again— morning amber yawns across the table toward an empty cup. Eyes in the corner— the kitchen tiger, pocket-black, worrying the broom— a hiss. Then a leap: swipes the air lands on my chest; swift fur coils my wrist, heavy with purrs— a clinging bracelet. Not what I miss. It’s the habit— heat in the hand, steam on the lip; the slurp— turns into reverie. Mourning sips— felt at the pulse; the ceremony spills— ticks in the bone, cold to the marrow.
0
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 2:01 PM UTC
The spoon and the broom
Syllables curl; silk sheens the crescent spoon drips into black— straight cut— 6 a.m. Half-awake: a hex— night grows legs, circles the room; gravity follows with a broom. I wake again— morning amber yawns across the table toward an empty cup. Eyes in the corner— the kitchen tiger, pocket-black, worrying the broom— a hiss. Then a leap: swipes the air lands on my chest; swift fur coils my wrist, heavy with purrs— a clinging bracelet. Not what I miss. It’s the habit— heat in the hand, steam on the lip; the slurp— turns into reverie. Mourning sips— felt at the pulse; the ceremony spills— ticks in the bone, cold to the marrow.
#ritual#somatic#consciousness#surrealism#existential#mindinbody#longing#nightthoughts
ist-one
Written by
ist-one
43/M/Hungary
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 2:01 PM UTC
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