The tea cup

How come you haven’t written anything in a while? He took a sip from his cup and tasted the words in his mouth. He liked his tea strong.
Hmm. A thoughtful I said. I guess I haven’t been inspired by anything or anyone lately.

Like what exactly?

Like your hands.

My hands?

Your hands… They are soft and squishy.. Like.. warm peaches.. ย The way they open up like a flower and cocoon mine when I’m not looking and rub my belly when I think I’m not worth it. How they gently try to untangle my curls but get tangled in them anyway. The way they trail along the cover of a book trying to draw a map of some far off place you visited or sit down with you on a tiny chair and wash your clothes. And feed your mouth. And take care of you. And your mother, when she’s sick. The right one that holds a cigarette while the left one strokes my hair when my head lies on your lap. Fingers that trace the valley of my spine and travel a thousand times over the ridges of my rib cage. Hands that hold my head when I puke after a night out in the city or sneak their way into my pocket to meet mine mid-sentence. The hands that take in their palms the faces that you’re about to kiss. Those hands.

I looked at him. He starred at me, his tea cup frozen somewhere between his chin and mid riff, meeting my gaze half way.

And we both burst out laughing, him chocking on his tea and I choking on my words.


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