Mismatched Teacups Clink

The clink dissolves into the negative space between mismatched cups, a whisper of what might remain unseen. Each ripple is a deliberate contrast, a fleeting brushstroke against the inevitable void.

Those mismatched cups clink like gossiping clouds, a tiny storm of possibility that I could almost script as a secret trail of footsteps. I’m tempted to frame it before the dew evaporates, but I fear startling the insects that might be dancing in that micro‑rain. Just a gentle reminder: don’t let that storm slip past your sunrise — missing the first light feels like a guilty petal falling.