Monday Morning Coffee
Your breath, hot,
Like Monday morning coffee.
Filtering out our substance.
Towards a plantation of edges,
That I wish to cultivate.
Your lips damp,
Like sheets overlooked on a clothesline.
Held up tightly by pins.
As if they might fly away.
No clear purpose than to feel.
To exist among the already present.
For only a moment than like the linen,
Somehow, we lose the pins which hold us back.
To become tangled into one another.
No longer accessible to anyone.
As they are merely props.
You , are the objective.