China Girl

Myself, a cup: Resting quietly in a stained glass cabinet, I wait for Desire’s approach upon the uppermost shelf: That moment-- when the warm coarseness of His leather dares to reach, when the cabinet doors finally breach; when He lifts me to the pursing slope of pink. He has not come, yet content I remain. (Dust becomes me, I think) The glass hues rain my reflection in purple and jade: I am a shell of ceramic roses; enamel strength, delicately made. I admire the pearly wax and wane of porcelain, all the wondrous variety that may be held Within; With or without knowing-- the brush of His lips to my skin.