The Cup

The cup holds only as much as it can. The cup is just a cup. The cup sits still until moved by something else, either a grabbing hand or a vindictive cat. The cup is too hot to touch so good luck drinking out of it. The cup is a morning cup of coffee when you haven’t even slept from the night before. The cup is held in the tarot cards read by the witch your friend insists you pay 20 quid to guess at your life and divine a future that can never be confirmed or disputed because you certainly won’t return to the witch’s pop-up tent at the farmer’s market. The cup holds every cup of tea left to go cold. The cup is a speaker at a shit house party you want to leave. The cup is full of spirit mixed with generic cola at your shit house party. The cup is found under the bed, sticky with sugar and dust. The cup sits in the sink even longer and must be bleached. The cup is something you don’t remember buying, maybe it came with the house. The cup has kissed you more than you’ve kissed another person. The cup feels bad for you. The cup is there when you drink away your loneliness. The cup thinks you’re a loser. The cup has seen many a cold night, where a childish hot chocolate is the best thing in the world. The cup has seen you sick and dehydrated and held the water at your bedside. The cup, to your knowledge, has never left your home, but you can’t say for certain. The cup has the remnants of a faded price sticker stuck to the bottom. The cup has accepted that it’s never coming off, so should you. The cup was clutch in your hand as your one night stand spends an hour reading your zodiac chart instead of leaving as you’d hoped. The cup is left abandoned as you fuck that Gemini one more time. Don’t drink from it, it’s my fucking cup.