The ugly
Don’t sit we’ll with me. Got a handle like a Chinese finger trap; snaps metacarpals like frustrated pencils. A taunting lip, turned out to make damn sure you miss your mouth and
ruin yourself for the day.
The ugly yellow cup
Don’t sit on the self. She made me promise to fill it up every day.
“when you drink from this vessel you drink of our love. Drink always deep as if a kiss.”
That she is gone
I drink from the ugly yellow cup
As soon as she comes back to me
It’s days are done.
It’ll find itself carelessly left teetering right there on some hazardous edge.
Or buried at the foot of that sycamore tree where we carved our names shortly after we first met.
Loaded onto that clay pigeon shooter we found at a car boot sale and she just had to have because “oh my god, how fucking cool is that?”
simply obliterated with the lump hammer that was there in the shed when we moved in that’s still covered in cobwebs because we couldn’t think of anything cool to do with it.
The ugly yellow cup wont sit right again.
But until she’s back in my arms
I’ll love it and drink from it, wash it tenderly by hand. I’ll polish it with a microfibre cloth and keep it beside me
Whilst I sleep.
That ugly yellow cup
Will be
A part
Of me.