Cup of Hope
Each dusk, I store all my tears in a cup before I cry myself to sleep. They sublime into nothingness overnight, but leave the saline traces behind. This gives me hope; this too shall pass, though it might leave some marks behind.
Each dawn, I wake up to the mocking streak of the sun, the cursing chirp of the birds and the piercing trifle of the breeze. Life doesn’t look the same anymore. The cup is my best pal, for it bears my crying, doesn’t judge me like mortals do, and is my lone source of optimism, no matter how shallow.
The gloomy hours of dusk always arrive, no matter how much I hate them. I see my threshold dropping with the dipping sun. Tears dwell up in my eyes, and my cup steps up in all loyalty. I see you in that little puddle of tears, right beneath the ripples of my falling pearls. I smile as you vaporize away, for it gives me hope.
With passing nights, the puddle becomes shallower. The hollowness in me begins to fill up. Each dawn, I wake up to the kiss of the morning sun, the melancholy of the singing birds, and the embracing trifle of the breeze. Life doesn’t look the same anymore. The cup still is my best pal, for it bears my laughter, doesn’t judge me for my past, and is my inspiration of hope.
Time heals what reason cannot.
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