How many lips, she wondered, had sipped from her coffee cup before her? How many eyes had looked for comfort at the bottom of the cup, through cold clouds of foam? How many hands had been warmed on the curves of the early morning brew, held in close to the chest, steam rising from the roast.
She found comfort in the story of her mug.
One last sip: leaving her kiss on the edge for its next soul.
FlyInMyWine 