A small thing

The cup warms and holds heat.
Foam like the milky way caught on time lapse.
The inner porcelain white, the outer blue
like a planet coming into focus.
This morning I’m angry,
but not at this small kindness
smooth on the lips.
Although still I envy people
that forgive as easily
as my tongue compels me to swallow.
Who know that it’s a matter of scale,
that what we hold, holds us,
until detergent and heat
ebbs away the stain
so the cup, dried and stacked,
is indistinguishable, blank
and cold as any star.
I take more warmth in
and practice letting it pass,
unburdened, down my throat.