You left your cup on the kitchen sink. It was still filled with your sustenance. There it stood, staring at me so plainly that I finally lifted it to my mouth and rested my kiss on the rim. I tasted you again. Nothing wakes me up in the morning quite like a glass of you. It was like a burst of molten sun-- an explosion of tartness spreading itself sweetly across my palette. I swear, the rim of your cup is sacred. So after I sipped from your morning brew, I left it alone in the basin. It's waiting for you to lift your flavor from its Holy surface. I'll sip again of your sweet mouth tomorrow.
Mom and I have a tendency to want to taste whatever my Dad has in front of him. He has a way of making any food or drink look absolutely delicious. Of course, I know what I think about whenever I sip from my Dad's cup, but I wondered what goes through Mom's head when she does it.