It’s the Little Things
Coffee cups stained from daily use
and the passage of time
minute cracks of the porcelain surface allowing the
infiltration of the smoky dark liquid
So much meaningless discourse meaning everything,
shared while clutching these cups
now warming arthritic fingers, tangled by tasks and touches
and years which have slipped by, often without notice
How many more times
will we fill the cups before one morning
One shall remain empty
*Posted originally on The Fat Bottom Bard.
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