The Mug

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I hold this mug in
my cold hands.
I take a sip and wait
for the warmth to enter my veins.
I set it back down and look up
at snowflakes dancing across
the window panes.
I absently run my finger over the handle
down the curve and back up where it
meets the side of the cup.
I’m lost in my thoughts, but look
down and realize the cup is me.
I hold part of your heart in my hand
and you hold the other part of mine.

Kimber Michaela 2012

 

This entry was posted in Writing.

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