The Matcha Club

We meet in the quiet hours—
where the morning hums in green and gold,
and sunlight drips down the sides of glass cups
like honey remembering summer.

No one speaks at first.
The kettle sings for us,
and steam curls its language into the air—
slow, patient,
the kind of holy that doesn’t need a church.

We whisk our thoughts into silence,
powder dissolving like old worry.
In this room, we are soft beings,
blooming in the heat of ritual.

The matcha glows—
thick and smooth as a kept promise,
the taste of calm wearing the color of life.
It coats our tongues with renewal,
our throats with forgiveness.

We talk about dreams after the first sip,
about the selves we shed and the ones we’re still building.
Someone laughs, and it sounds like wind in bamboo.

Here, every sip is an offering.
Every breath, a vow.
We are not seeking peace—
we are steeping in it.

Welcome to the Matcha Club.
Leave your rush at the door.
Stay until you remember
what it means to feel alive.