Tea Time
The water boiler squeals after two minutes,
Informing me that it’s reached
The maximum temperature,
And you cry after two years,
Letting me know you’ve reached
Your maximum breaking point.
Just as I wait, steeping the grainy
Tea bag of black, powdery dregs
In the clear boiling water, steam swirling
Above it, circling the liquid,
I sit idle in the bedroom,
Chaotic thoughts circling above my head,
For you to finally have steeped enough
In your sorrow to open the door
And let me in.
The glaring yellow light seeps out
From the crack in the bathroom door,
Spreading through the shadows in the bedroom,
The way the half-and-half reaches out,
Clouds of white billowing in the dense liquid,
Mixing itself and diluting the thickness
Of my bitter morning tea.
Your muffled sobs behind the
Door break the silence of the vast,
Dark emptiness of the bedroom,
The way the sugar cubes crash into the
Still, smooth surface of my creamy
Morning tea.
I blow your steam away in
Soft whispers,
Calming, cooling breaths of
Fresh air,
The way I cool my scalding
Morning tea.
And just like my sweet
Morning tea,
I take a hesitant sip and,
Even though you burn my
Tongue with your heat,
I swallow you whole.
