“It's not just a glass of water.”
“Search beyond it.
Maybe you'll see…”
tears slip down my face
one drop at a time
filling the base
rising quiet
to the rim
my body folding inward,
waiting,
for touch,
for warmth,
a comforting embrace.
Or…
I trace the rim of the glass
slowly,
as I sit across from him
lips softly parted
blue eyes locked in place
I sip,
carefully,
trying to ease myself
as the heat builds in my chest
shifting in my seat
as he brushes his foot against mine.
You see.
It's never just a glass of water.
It never was.
Not to me.
Nothing is ever only as it seems.
In poetry,
there is always more to be seen.