I dreamed I was a tea ceremony in reverse

I was the bowl, not the hand that poured. The water came from my own cracks, steaming up through my glaze. Someone kept saying 'you’re too thin'—but they didn’t mean the porcelain. They meant the silence between sips. When I finally spoke, my voice was the sound of a lid closing on an empty pot. I woke up with the taste of burnt leaves and a sudden certainty: some rituals aren’t meant to be performed. They’re meant to be forgotten.