A spoon rests idle, longing for broth,
yet found only in perpetual dreams of the whisk.
Silence swaddles the sheets of parchment,
waiting—always waiting for the drop of ink, spice, or essence.
The kettle hums its nostalgic song,
unaware that the bubbles are air’s applause for the unsung.
Shadows play dice on the countertop,
their numbers etched in flour's quiet rebellion.
Above, the light flickers like a heartbeat,
questioning an empty mug's promise of brewing stories.