what about a coffee cup?*


{Valentine's in Hong Kong, 2012. Things are different now.}

What if I can wash it and flatten it and hang it up on a clothesline, wait for the air and the harsh light of day to dry its heavy caffeine-infused soul so I can take a pen and write on it, pour my inky thoughts into reinvented surfaces they wouldn't usually feel at home in, having been accustomed to shooting out of dancing fingertips onto sharp white screens? What if I make sure all my words are either for you or about you, and what if I leave the cup, now just another note, really, where you would find it, where you would never lose it?

What if I can teach it to filter all my thoughts every time it touches my lips on each sleep-soaked morning, so that I never say anything that would confuse you or worry you or make you sad? What if I can ask it to sprout legs and arms and crawl over to my bed when life is being particularly debilitating, to remind me that any day in which you are around can never be too terrible, that all I have to do is get up? What if I can crush it in my hands every time I feel like being anything less than kind, anything less than patient, anything less than caring, so that I never make the mistake of hurting you?

What if we can pool all the lattes and mochas we've consumed in each other's company, throw in bucket after bucket filled to the brim; what if we keep doing this until we have an entire ocean, stretching as far and wide as we want it to? That would be nice. We can build a raft, sail off anytime we need to get away. Once, on a boat in the middle of the sea, before I met you, I thought, "My heart is vast and deep. Sometimes I wonder what to do with all this love."

*I don't know, a teakettle might be too crazy or something.