It's Common

I've spilled before like coffee, cold, in ceramic. Only to dry in the cocentric rings of an unused saucer. It happens as easily  when I am picked up, as when I am set down. Now I find myself ready to leave the cup. I want to jostle myself into a lap, onto the floor. To jump from the lip and let myself be felt. I want you to break the handle, hide the saucer, and smuggle me into your flask, to be consumed at your leisure.