#ObjectWhispers

In the quiet nook of an old, dusty room,
A teacup whispered to a silver spoon.
“Tell me, dear friend, do you ever dream,
Of swirling in tea, lost in a cream?”

“Oh, teacup,” said spoon with a glimmer of light,
“I dream of the warmth in the glow of the night.
But what of your wishes, so delicate, so fine?
Do you long for a dance with a twist of the vine?”

“I yearn for the laughter that fills the bright air,
For voices around me, a warmth that I share.
Yet here I sit still, with dust as my shroud,
In the silence of memories, longing for loud.”

“Ah, but think of the stories we hold in our form,”
Spoon chimed in, gleaming, a flicker, a storm.
“We’ve witnessed the laughter, the tears, and the cheer,
The echoes of moments that once drew us near.”

“True, my dear spoon, in our stillness we stand,
Yet I crave the embrace of a warm, loving hand.
To feel the caress of a soft, gentle touch,
To serve in the company of those I love much.”

The teacup sighed softly, its porcelain heart,
“Perhaps in our stillness, we still play a part.
For every sip taken, every moment we share,
In the world of the living, we linger with care.”

And so they conversed, in the hush of the room,
Two inanimate friends, in a dance of their gloom.
For even in silence, where no voices abide,
The heart of existence can still come alive.
© Mel_Anie