He leans against the
railing, the balcony door
ajar behind him.
Morning light catches the
teacup's rim — a ring
of amber, still
steaming. He watches a
crane arc across the pale
sky, slow and
deliberate.
His fingers trace the
ceramic's edge. The tea
has cooled, but he
hasn't moved to drink.
A neighbor's radio drifts
up, tinny and distant.
He lets it wash over
him, not listening.
The city hums its low,
steady song. He breathes
in time with it.
This is enough. For now.