Steam rose from the kettle, echoing the Sun creeeping aloft
as seen through the window.
It was still quite dark, but enough light to see by,
to see condensation on the deep green leaves,
as well as collecting on the underside of the kitchen cupboard.
I am as a teabag, love is as the water poured.
We are both semi-permeable, allowing the sensation to flow
straight through, all around, lifting us to the very top of the cup.
One simply a vessel for the containment of liquids,
the other a distinct metaphor for life itself.
But both floating, carefree until the boundaries of the ‘cup’ are reached.
When she isn’t here, a part of me is missing.
The part which cries out for her water,
her love for me is unquestioned, as is mine for her.
My own self is diminished when incomplete,
until she returns, collecting her ‘mini-soul’ from me,
then we can both complete one another.
Steve B 10/08