there is a cup on my desk that i never use. it just sits there, holding nothing, doing it proudly. i respect that. most things in life crumble without purpose; this cup thrives in purposelessness.

every day, i tell myself i'll drink water from it. every day, i don't. the cup never complains. it has the calm patience of someone who knows the universe will end eventually, so what’s a little waiting.

sometimes, when the window is open, the breeze nudges it slightly. the cup doesn't move, but i can feel it wanting to. or maybe that's me wanting it to. hard to say who owns the desire in this relationship.

one day, i’ll fill it. not because i need the water, but because i want it to feel included in the idea of usefulness.

the other cups might get jealous. i’ll cross that bridge when i spill it.