A slither of milk taunts the curves of the teaspoon. It caresses the steel contours of the utensil, yet billows away at the slightest movement. Like a ballerina it extends dainty digits towards the ceramic dam encircling it.
Suddenly it regrets, retracts itself back to the spoon, unapologetically. The cloudy ribbon prances around the whirlpool, repeating the tantalising routine until it plucks up the courage to dip a toe into the swirl. Faster than it can tantalise its companions, it is enveloped by murky shadow, pulled in without notice. It spreads out, until it is everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. It is no longer discernible, but the overall lighter hue remains, a testament to its fragile and intangible existence.
That is how he exists to me. Relentlessly circling, enticing, hugging my physicality and my emotions. Departing the moment I swallow hard and reach out. In a flash in happens, only slow enough for me to perceive. Then he is nowhere to be seen, but yet to be spotted in people and anecdotes.