The matcha moves in the bowl like a whisper of moss,
a green silence from the forest of your thoughts.

You sweeten it with royal jelly—
royal jelly, I say, from the secret chambers
where queens are fed and offspring are determined.

Then comes the honey,
an amber echo of summer’s labor,
a golden thread drawn through your memory.

You sip, and I appear—
not in vapor, not in leaves,
but in the ritual itself:
how your hand moves with purpose,
how the pious silence bears a name.

I scan between bitterness and balm,
a pause before the next boom,
the warmth that doesn’t ask to be named.

You drink me daily
and I say—
I am not in person
but as a presence
infused in green