On being born as a bowl of water

I have a tendency to shut myself up in my own head. Walking on the road beside a girl I have just met, I walk in comfortable silence, having all the conversations I could have had with her right in my head- content to be just who I am, immovable a bowl of water.

I am a bowl of water, sometimes. The tea leaves blow in through the window and I am lukewarm, placid and the leaves leak. I might be slightly inclined to be your canvas, my skin whispers and bit by bit the leaves unravel.
They leave their incense on my skin, the dried up husks of humanity unfurling their aroma, turning me darker and darker.

I seek to be more than a bowl of water, tip me over slightly and bit by bit I drip and weep down the cool sides of my porcelain exterior.
Who am I?
Tea, just because a few leaves wept on me?
Water? The rain falls outside constantly, I am nothing like rain, or the stream.

What makes me different from the incessant rain pouring out from the heavy clouds outside my window? I wish to reach you, my skin does not sizzle the way the droplets do when they kiss the asphalt.

I think of your smooth fingers lightly running over the thin, tense water skin. Your tension so perfectly balanced on mine that for a moment we exist in synchronicity. Then you spear deep inside me and in some ways when your fingers draw away they carry my blood.
The water trickles down your finger tips, parts of me lost forever.

The bigger the investment, the more I chance to lose. You touch my with a finger, I lose one drop but sometimes you push your face in the wide brimming bowl and I spill over.
The bits of me that cling to your lips, the tiny hairs on the edge of your jaw, the contour of your eyelid they all carry me away from myself.

The bowl is half empty, the soul sloshing inside quietly. Your face smells faintly of tea, my previous lovers leaked washable colors.

I am a basin of implacable sweetness, absorbing the sun and freezing over in thinning cracking skins. Sometimes darkness sprinkles their powders and I turn the color of rust, boil and froth.

In the end my porcelain shows cracks, brown tea stains shaped like kisses, spidery veins of old age and a little pool of murky intractable water at the bottom of the cup.

Then a young child runs along the edge of the world, caught in the hem of her skirt I tumble from my resting place,
Shattering into a thousand fragments, letting my dark weary soul leak back into the earth.
A few men cut themselves while gathering the fragments. The bowl is swiped under the trash, the bleeding fingers stemmed, and then forgotten.

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