I love you because you're a beautiful red. You hold coffee at the perfect temperature. You're happily within reach on my desk, easy to grab and sip from.
Yet ever since you moved it, you've made it far too tempting to have more coffee than I need. A cup here, a cup there - who's counting? I've noticed that you call to me, even when I hide you in my desk drawer.
Why does it seem that we're so easily hurt by the ones we love?
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