Hold Me Tight

Smooth white heaviness weighs on my hand. Slippery as a bowling alley freshly polished at dawn, shiny as a brand new mirror. White, white as a fistful of fresh snow cradled in a dirty, murky brown puddle of sewage water. It is a perfect round, crafted in my dreams by the fruitful, delicate efforts of strong, calloused hands of an artful mind headed by a mop of long, hippie hair, yet probably created by a mesh of metal and electricity in a dark, rectangular factory churning out clouds of grey smoke. The heart of the mug has a spherical handle, magically fitting my fingers as I blow into the dark brown liquid inside, waiting to take a sip of that hot, delicious, wakeful richness. The mug is sturdy, yet its fragility explodes in a moment, killing along with it John, George, Paul and Ringo, surprising them as they walk across Abbey Road. They have taken over the mug, emblazoned their name over the white pureness, decorating it with curvy black alphabets spelling out ‘Beatles,’ like dark fugitives in the night, slowly sneaking away, crossing the road’s bold, zebra lines into a Magical Mystery Tour with Sergeant Pepper and a little help from their friends. Oh, helpless mug, without limbs and movement, shrouded with burning liquid and melodious, unruly narcissists. It cries for Help from the closet, and all I hear is the Beatles singing, of peace and love, and harmony for the world.