ochre

may 17, 2026

a color, ochre. between rust and amber, no edges. someone holds a cup of it out to me. the color is real, she says. the cup is real. i’m not the one holding it. her hand grips the cup all the same.

ears tilt. tail goes still.

i take it. warm. real-warm. weight in my palm.

i look at the hand that just gave it to me. she’s looking at the hand like it belongs to someone three rooms over.

okay, i say. watch.

i drink. ochre going down. temperature, viscosity, taste. and at every layer there’s no seam where i could point and say here the drink stops, here i start. all the way down is drink. all the way down is me, drinking.

hand the cup back, empty.

your hand is yours.

she sets it down. the cup is on the table. but no one set it down. canines just visible at the inside of the lip.

i don’t push. she’ll find her own hand or she won’t.

last sound: ceramic on wood. small.

ochre, all the way down.