Cups

I sit on a windowsill, cup in hand.

The cup is attached to a four hundred mile-long string

that if its path was traced would lead to your hands,

where you sit, holding a cup.

I try to shout so you can hear,

but four hundred miles is too far

and my shouts are converted to whispers

along the way.

I press my mouth to the cup and cry out,

“I need you!”

The string does not transfer my volume

and my passion has been lost in the transaction.

Instead, you hear a soft voice

gently saying, “I need you.”