Atlas of Steam

Morning tilts its brass shoulder against the stove, and the kettle begins translating cold into song; a thin river of steam draws maps on the window where last night left its fingerprints of rain.

The kitchen is a small continent of tin and wood, its borders the edges of a table scarred by knives; spice jars are weathered lighthouses, patient, and a single orange sits like a low sun.

I warm my hands on the mug, an eclipse of heat, and listen to the radiator gossip in clicks; outside, the street rehearses its ordinary wind, learning the names of every leaf it lifts.

When the kettle sighs itself empty again, the room cools, and the glass goes clear; the map dissolves, but the morning remains in the shape of my breath on the cup.