Transparent Saucer

It was an idea set in her mind, deep inside, somewhere in the back
The constant reminder and envy that writers had coffee stains on their work
Authors always had coffee stains, by the bottom of their cup, on letters and writings
It was simply so bothering: to see those stains and wonder why her work was not stamped as such
‘Were their cups cracked? Were they so clumsy? Did they tremble and shake too often?’
If yes, then it was no different from her pathetic situation
Yet, there is so much fascination
It feels as important as the signature below,
as necessary as the ends of a tablecloth being balanced
or having five separate towels
All of the work seems so ugly, now
The cup is stained with her pink lips everyday,
though still refuses to share itself with the paper
It was and still is so upsetting, no matter the effort
All the effort to simply spill a little in the saucer so by will there is a circle formed on top of words written with ink
Lies, however, it would be lying to do it intentionally
‘Does it complete the work? Is the work true?’
If it is the clumsiness then she did quite a well job in marking papers with tears but not with coffee, never with coffee
How awful it must be to be so aware and so careful about a cup
Three cups, three different circles yet not a single formed
Maybe, only maybe it is the cups that are worriedly careful
Careful and selfishly aware to not spill enough drops which will form a territory
Such a perverse act to bounce off the edge and chip itself instead of overflowing,
to be displayed on the shelf with other precious objects
as if a soldier given the medal for watching the war from distance
All the letters look unpleasing
No perfume scent or ribbon knots;
black envelopes or blue, fill the slightest meaning to her work
Much less, to herself
Darling, will you believe she is a writer despite that her pages are empty?

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