Fill Me

Fill me up,
like you would
a porcelain cup
with green tea.

And should that cup,
hot with steam,
manage to bore you
hand the silly thing away

or  hold,
hold the hot mess
between hands
so delicate

and let it warm
the hole in
your half broken heart

wouldn’t that be nice?

So, cherie,
fill me with the
rose petals
that drip from your lips

fill me
with the songs
delightfully wandering
through your world

the mad should nots
and should haves
making you sick
with regret.

I will not break,
or spill,
or make your tongue sore
with burns,

but will spread
my heart over yours,
melt your shyness
with bare hands.

Fill my cup.


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