I want to be your coffee cup. To have that bottom lip running across my angles. I know how careful you can be. You take things in painfully slow, always at the precipice of hesitation. It makes my breath hitch. My senses focus on that single second the hot liquid caresses the slick skin against your teeth. My imagination mesmerizes me.
You hold that cup with such considerate gentleness that makes me curious about how you hold other things not made of porcelain. Are you as guarded? Or do those fingers explore like a conqueror, mapping out entrances and exits, twists and territories Your knuckles look rough, and my thoughts head straight to impossibilities. I want to tell you about them. But not right now, when your eyes are closed, tasting. Not right now, when I can bore right through you with unabashed hunger and still keep it a secret.
