Unchanged

Steam rises

from the cup—

a mountain

that does not last.

The man sits

by the window,

watching distant peaks

fade into morning haze.

Which is farther—

those mountains,

or the dreams

that linger behind his eyes?

He drinks.

Warmth enters,

without asking

what is real.

Last night’s world

has already dissolved—

faces, roads,

entire skies—

gone

as if they never refused him.

And this one—

cup, window, breath—

rests just as lightly

in unseen hands.

A cloud passes

over the mountains.

They vanish,

then return

unchanged.

He does not decide

which to trust.

The tea cools.

The day opens.

Somewhere ahead,

another waking—

or another dream—

and no edge

clear enough

to say

where joy begins

or ends.