The interior of a celadon cup

Reveals a tea-stained fracture.

The exterior of a hand

Displays a finely-wrinkled web.

Do not disdain either

Or consider these as flawed.

Each holds unique beauty,

Testimony to time’s passage.

Recognize their value

And hold them dear.

Open eyes, open heart.

A sip of tea in the morning.

A stain on the fabric of the chair.

The first, it brings a sense of relief.

I no longer hold my breath in tensed anticipation,

No longer wonder, “when will it happen, and how?”

This marks it officially used, officially mine.

I can quit being so damned careful and relax.

I can sit and think and eat and drink,

A worn person resting in a smirched chair.

We fit each other now.

I would like to say I’m waiting.

Expectant, open to the new day.

Open like the door through which I stepped

Early to check the morning sky.

Open like that very sky,

Accepting every color of cloud.

But I am not.

I sit inside in a darkened room

Watching the letters of every word

Blur into meaningless squiggles.

They are not that, and I know

You would gladly read them aloud to me,

But your voice would become the message,

And the story lost still.

I have given up hope for the moment,

Letting the door stay shut in the silence.

Silence that fills the air.

Silence that hangs in hushed abeyance.

Silence that carries its own sense of longing.

I close the book and leave the room.