Cups

In the beginning, there was a formless sea. That was me. You were the holy cup. I filled you with a love that only we could be.

Our joy is a cup, and only we can pick it up. We pass it round and round, from hand to hand replenishing the bowl with every kiss, like hungry doves. I know you understand.

At night you’re like a rock in the abyss, soft and warm when I return to bed pretending I can cup you like the earth. I nuzzle both your shoulders. I kiss your neck. I promise to protect your gemstone heart.

And this poem is a toast, and we’re the crystal — the wine’s another year of love adoringly distilled.