To be held

A little poem coming live from inside my head.

A cup is expected to be held

with some liquid urging it to be consumed, 

allowing its sometimes colourful matter

 to be marvelled at.

 And when held, wet fingertips 

become knotted in its dance,

fingertips pressed, like children’s noses 

against happy windows, 

And life swooshes by in sprited pastel.

A cup is expected to be held

And I’m sure you wouldn’t expect any less,

As revered water enters your throat and chest

And what else is the matter?

Whilst my love is still 

slighted and withheld. 

A cup is expected to be held. 

To be sought for and encounter couples’ rows,

Silent but addressed as if compelled.

The absurd, little hero in 

the face of uncertainty. 

Ready for the rush of the room as 

much as the steady wisdom when shelved.

A cup is expected to be held

And I’m so jealous.

A cup is expected to be held 

Whilst someone sees into it, 

for its turmoil and what it entails

without having to cower or to slowly 

swallow in the details.

Unapologetic, a cup is with its flowy contents 

Whilst my ‘I love you’s

 erupt out of me like an ancestral shiver.