Was it them bubble colours
on the outside,
mellow summer beckoned
cold under the sheets
palm to your *****
Speaking lost in a language
of memories, welling up
genie-like finger tiptoeing
on the handle
or how tea stained the corners?
your eyes, lined black
distant bylane of long forgotten
when in rain we stopped by
porcelain, hands
clay-holding kiln-heated
fragrant vapour rising
morning in the chocolate cup
was it your lips that I
longed to find on the edges?
four seasons, etched
in the corrugations
that bore the wash-marks of time
broken - now lost, forgotten
the polka dots cup
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
Was it them bubble colours
on the outside,
mellow summer beckoned
cold under the sheets
palm to your *****
Speaking lost in a language
of memories, welling up
genie-like finger tiptoeing
on the handle
or how tea stained the corners?
your eyes, lined black
distant bylane of long forgotten
when in rain we stopped by
porcelain, hands
clay-holding kiln-heated
fragrant vapour rising
morning in the chocolate cup
was it your lips that I
longed to find on the edges?
four seasons, etched
in the corrugations
that bore the wash-marks of time
broken - now lost, forgotten
the polka dots cup
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