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Coasters Stop You From Seeping Into Me, Do I Secretly Want You To?
I cradle you in both hands—
the cup is hotter than the blood in me.
I sip until my tongue blisters,
as if pain is the only proof
that I can still be filled.
The table is a witness—
its pale skin bruises under you.
You leave your halo of tannin,
a brown eclipse widening,
seeping into the grain like rot that knows my name.
I line the coasters in military rows,
little shields of cork and cloth,
but you slip past their defenses—
a siege of warmth,
an invasion I invite.
Soon the whole table will be dark.
Soon my palms will smell of leaves and ash.
But you seep through everything,
and I wonder if love is not the cup,
nor the hand holding it,
but the stain that stays after.
Copyright ©
shay's archive
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