Paper Cup

My eyes traverse this whole side of the earth
in a paper cup.
I have emptied it a minute ago --
black coffee I almost spilled
when you asked me something
unanswerable

And yet I did answer
the same time I reprimanded myself
for having emptied the cup too soon.
I didn’t want to startle you
so I stayed silent about coffee particles
that have settled to the base:

They refuse to dissolve, continents of them
like how it must feel
to stay self, particulate
despite intimations of promises
I cannot dare unmask.
And I bask

At how well I hid from you
the strangest information of
their motility when I tilt the container --
paper cup whose rim I tore up
when I told you something
incomprehensible

Like time.