Felt to the Marrow

The silver spoon
sits upon the kitchen 
table, tarnished and
stained with tea.
What can it tell me of you?

I know the sound it makes 
against the cup;
the clink tink of 
polite conversation.

I know too its shape
upon the back of
my tongue.
Its sticky sweetness 
and the tang of metal
against my teeth.
Felt to the marrow.

Our hearts thrum in unison
as the steam snakes
upward and we slowly warm
ourselves.