Steam carreses my hand and floats in likewise arrangements up to the ceiling.
The heat drips down my throat in a healing process- a variation of comfort I am just beginning to understand.
I am jealous of this tea bag,
sitting in hot water, soaking its insides out.
Knowing that its contents will transform into something beautiful when it lets go.
The water evaporates likea soul on a death bed...
Yet it is calm.
Slowly it twirls, dancing to the last song it will ever hear.
And then poof-
It is gone.
Selfless, it seems.
Oh, how I wish I was steam.