Inscription on the cup

The alarm clock starts playing a cozy melody quietly. Then louder. When I open my eyes, I see white frost on all the window panes. Winter. And even minus 20 degrees. It would be so good to hug you now. So warm and cozy. And slowly caress your hair, neck, breasts. To snuggle in and just be, no longer feeling the ticking of time.

But the other side of the bed is empty. There is no you. The feeling of paradise is short, maybe so that we appreciate it more. But the promise remains. The promise gives hope that the old feeling will return. If you really want it, and, of course, make an effort.

I look at the table. There is a cup on it that I really like. I like to drink coffee from it in the mornings. Or wine sometimes at other times. It is white. White light porcelain. The kind with a gold band around the edge. Like they used to make it in the old days. When drinking coffee in the morning, the amount of it is also important. I like it to be a lot, not two drops. My porcelain cup is just like that. You can drink half of it, and save the other half for a cake. For endorphins. This is very important. Then you have a completely different attitude to life. To live this day. Somehow brighter.

Also, drinking my morning coffee, I remember you. Your somehow magical smile. Just looking at it fills your body with such a warm wave, like a stream of water. It's such a feeling. Anyone who has ever experienced it knows. And it's hard to describe to someone else. A cup of coffee takes you to those moments when I stroked your hair, danced with you in the middle of the room, when we ran down the stairs holding hands so that our bare feet could touch the warm sand. And the wind and sunlight seemed to be around us forever.

Another sip. Warm, fragrant coffee, reminiscent of the African desert, drips down my throat. Where are you now, what are you thinking, what are you longing for, what are you hoping for or waiting for? Do you still remember me? Was I just an episode in your reckless youth? No, I don't regret it, I'm glad that it was all there was. That I was lucky enough to know you, your comfort, love, to explore your body and thoughts. You have to smile when a new day begins, the sun rises, and memories rise too. When I have the cup you gave me with the golden rim. Which your lips touched. So soft, sensitive, and attractive, especially with red lipstick.

The coffee is getting cold. That's good. I don't like hot. Hot coffee burns your tongue, and then you want to swear.

Because you don't feel the taste anymore, only the pain. One more sip. I go to the window, I wonder how the neighbors live. Are they shoveling snow, or trying to start a frozen car. Scraping ice off the glass.

Or maybe I'll see someone in the next apartment who, like me, drinks morning coffee and stares through the glass?

Although that doesn't matter. What's important is that with every sip I'm waiting for something. I'm waiting for the moment when a miracle will happen. They happen sometimes, otherwise the word "miracle" wouldn't exist in human language. It would be the moment when I suddenly turned around and saw you. As shown in the movies. Your magical, seductive smile, a light approach and a hug. Such a long, long one. When I was about to pull away, and you would say "let's stay together like this again, again, I feel so calm and good."

Half a cup was left. I stroked it like your golden hair. Which shone so brightly when the evening sun's rays fell on it. I feel warmth. Warmth from the coffee, Or maybe not only from the coffee.

Where's that cake? Ah, there it is, under the letter. A letter I wrote maybe twenty years ago. When I didn't read them much back then. And why? After all, you're there, we can communicate live, directly, so why are those letters? And why? So that I have memories. Something that strengthens and preserves them. The letter, like my cup, was touched by your hands. The seal of your energy remained there, which I can sometimes feel. Almost smell.

I remember how I used to make you coffee after an almost sleepless night, so that you would have the strength to get up from your messy bed. To get up after absolutely shameless night games. Games and experiments that bring incredible moments of happiness. I think God created it as a counterweight to the immense pain that still exists in the world. In a world that can suddenly turn its cruel, relentless, thorny and tragic side. Which we all want to avoid, or forget that it exists. It is somewhere nearby and waiting. But this morning cup blocks all that. It radiates joyful moments of happiness that have slipped into the past on the timeline.

But physicists have proven that time is closed, the past and the future exist together, only distant from our current point. This means that our memories are real, indelible and waiting. And promising to be reborn. When we really want it. When we want to repeat, revive and enjoy. Maybe in another life. And now memories are mine, and I hope yours too. A treasure that no one will take away, will not be destroyed by storms, wars or earthquakes.

Every morning I can summon them in my brain. And feel them clearly, as if in reality, not like in a dream. The cup of coffee that you gave me on one of those mornings when we both felt the harmony of ourselves and the world is the trigger that starts the flow of sparkling memories.

And for this we do not need photographs of us together or apart. Although they lie hidden in a place known only to me. Why hidden? Because there are a few photos there that I can't show even to my best friend. Because they are too open, too intimate. You can see your insides, your naked soul in them. When you said, trust me completely, do whatever you want with me. I've never heard that in my life. For a person to give himself to me like that, as if we were of one blood, one flesh, and were unconditionally assured of his safety. Then betrayal as such could not exist at all. It has no existential point at such moments. I think all the angels envied us then. Such closeness and fullness of life. I wonder if heaven and paradise can be better or at least the same. Love conquers hell. Hell can only destroy, tear apart, and take angry pleasure in it, but it is unable to create. To create memories of such feelings that would stand the test of time, that would be reborn again and again.

Just pour coffee into your porcelain cup and place your fingers against its sides.

Then draw back the curtain, let the light streaming through the frosted winter window fall on the table with the crumbs from the cake. And sit on the edge of the bed, where you used to sit at such moments, inhale deeply the aroma emanating from the cup, close your eyes and see your warm, trusting smile, which seems to say: everything will be fine, the world has not collapsed, the cold will end someday. Spring will come. Definitely, and how could it be otherwise. And again the flowers will bloom, the mountain rivers will murmur, the oceans will surge, eagles or condors will fly and horses will gallop across the wide prairies. And there will be many more sunsets sitting on rocks on the shores, dance floors, quiet reflections, deliberations or doing something not as my insides tell me, sometimes maybe hours of blue despair, facing the inevitable, the acute feeling of another person's pain, strange insights, helplessness and assured strength, which one priest wished for.

And on the side of that white light cup is written: "We are each other's angels."