The cup is lighter than expected,

Which feels like permission.

Coffee settles where thinking usually rushes.

The chair stops arguing with my back.

A sip happens without analysis.

So does breathing.

The room holds still,

Not waiting, just allowing.

Minutes behave themselves.

No alerts, no opinions.

The cup meets the table softly,

As if sound could bruise the moment.

Thoughts wander in slippers,

Unimpressive, honest.

This pause doesn’t want applause.

It only wants to be used.

Another sip adjusts the day slightly,

Tilting it toward manageable.

When the cup finally empties,

Nothing urgent rushes in.

The next task approaches politely,

Knowing it was not invited yet.