Who is loving me, I want to ask this mug, why are you telling me this?
Most likely, the mug was a gift, from one lover to another, or a daughter to a sister, or a gift that was never given, but remaindered and purchased for the sole purpose of collecting and holding coffee in company break rooms. The love was imagined by the creator of the mug, but never occurred, trapped forever in the small squiggle of the teddy-bear's smile, the round nose, the eyes that sit balefully upon the upper curve of the two-dimensional snout. No one is loved. The bear loves. The red line on the rim will be gripped gently by my lower lip, the hot liquid will come into my mouth, just cool enough to prevent my gasp of pleasure, the muddy liquid scars my tastebuds.
I love, and will be loved, and will accept this mug as my own. I will not look upon it sarcastically any further. There was intention there, and I will seize the intention and make it my own. Let there be appreciation, let there be caffeinated comprehension, an aromatic embrace, java joy, the slick black wandering peace, the yellow glaze interior, the ceramic semantics of happiness. Let there be love.
No cream, no sugar, just me and my crayon bear, happily tip-typing away, happily exploring the edges of understanding. So many words, so many thoughts, and I can not seem to type fast enough.