Cups
Published in
1 min readJan 16, 2020
In the beginning, there was a formless sea.
That was me. You were the holy cup.
I filled you with a love that only we could be.
Our joy is a cup, and only we can pick it up.
We pass it round and round, from hand to hand
replenishing the bowl with every kiss,
like hungry doves. I know you understand.
At night you’re like a rock in the abyss,
soft and warm when I return to bed
pretending I can cup you like the earth.
I nuzzle both your shoulders. I kiss your neck.
I promise to protect your gemstone heart.
And this poem is a toast, and we’re the crystal —
the wine’s another year of love adoringly distilled.
