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Jul 2010
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.
Written by
Chenoa
528
 
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