Lantern Lesson

Kettle breath, quiet hands, a room that makes room.

We forgot for a while how love learns us—
we thought it needed fireworks.

But it starts like this:
the kettle settles,
the lamp clicks on,
a moth draws a soft circle and stays.

You pass me the bowl,
I rinse the rice until the water clears.
Your sleeve brushes mine,
and the room makes room.

We eat standing up,
over the sink,
salt on our fingers,
talk low about the price of limes.

Later,
we fold shirts by the fan,
matching strangers made into pairs.
My favorite one
remembers your shoulder.

You fix the loose switch,
say try it now,
and the light holds, uncomplicated.

I thought I wanted a miracle.
It was only practice:
your key in the dish,
my cup turned mouth-down,
the door learning to close
without a sound.

Tonight the lesson is simple:
ordinary is what stays,
if we stay.

---

Asuka’s note:

I wrote this while rinsing my teacup and listening to rain on the zinc roof.
It reminded me how small tasks keep a promise when words feel tired.
What ordinary thing taught you love again this week?
Thank you for reading—rest well, little lanterns.

---

PS:

If this lantern found you in the dark, let it travel—restack or whisper a line you’ll keep.