Drowned

The path isn't easy, but I'm famished after hours of storming around the isles of possibilities, only to find myself in a land of contemplation.
I snail towards the kitchen, where my eyes meet an empty glass and spoon. I subconsciously and rhythmically find a remedy.
The percolation dissolves my island, my mind, worries melting swiftly. I savor this paradox. Warm hands envelop the balls of snow (worries), melting them, and they disappear. Such fine moments where I hope and taste the warmth in the cold.
I'm mesmerized how some sinful spoons of affogato can be a compass to restart.