First Cup

It begins in stillness,
the quiet clink of the mug,
a whisper of steam rising
as hot water meets dark grounds—
alchemy before thought.

The scent finds you first.
Not with fanfare, but with certainty.
It brushes the edges of your sleep,
invites your mind to rise
like a leaf caught on warm air.

You lift the cup.
Not with haste—
this is the ceremony of returning.
The rim touches your lip,
heat and earth and morning meet.

One sip—
and the dream begins to thin.

This is not just coffee.
It’s not even just caffeine.
It’s the moment
the veil lifts between
the inside and the world.

A thousand nerves begin to hum,
not fast, not frantic—just tuned.
You are not speeding up.
You are arriving.

Thoughts line up.
Colors sharpen.
The sky outside the window
becomes the exact blue it is.

You are no longer chasing the day.
The day has already entered you.

This is not a habit.
This is a threshold.

Awake now—
not because the coffee changed you,
but because it showed you
how near awareness always was.