The Way of the Cup

I feel as a cup must feel. Day after day, being drained of everything it had. Its essence sucked dry or left to slowly patter against the stainless steel sink. It feels empty. It may sit there, only because no one is there to move it, waiting for the chance to be full again. But it’s never the same. Never the same as before, and always, the cup is left with nothing, maybe a drip of what it had still lingering down on the bottom. I feel as a cup must feel, being used and reused again. Met with thirsty kisses and the stain of saliva and whatever was left inside it settling on the rim. Kept hidden in the cupboards, forgotten; remembered only when wanted and when actually taken out, never really acknowledged. If it shatters, there will be no funeral, no requiem. Just another one to take its place. There always is.

It probably thought it was something special, porcelain and new. But there is no rarity in its existence, save for the fine china on display just feet from where that cup now rests, sad and painfully untouched. The fine china is pristine and unaffected, admittedly fond of its chastity, knowing at least that when it is deflowered, it will be in the splendor of wine, champagne and fine liqueur. The cup knows not of such fragile beauty, whored as an everyday commodity, groped and used and washed afterwards, as if to claim how dirty it must be to have been used in such a way…

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