i have never found myself in poetry,
but i think i may have found myself in your arms
as we sit in your kitchen, waiting for the kettle;
your soft eyes and parted lips, sculpted by aphrodite
as you silently boil the water.
you have careful fingers as you pour the hot water
into two red, chipped mugs. i remember the
gentle pressure of those fingers twisted in my hair.
curled green leaves lay with small jasmine flowers,
pearlescent petals floating delicate in the mug.
how sweet this vanilla air is, and for a vivid moment,
you have the effervescent beauty of a thunderous
splinter of forked lightning.
i sip carefully, hoping not to burn my lips,
as tentative as the manner in which i reach
for your hand in the dark. my mouth burns
with the taste of green tea and sugar.
(but i wish it was burning with the taste of your lips)
i like milk and sugar in my tea, but you don't.
you like a spoonful of honey, golden and warm
spilling over the sides of the cup;
sticky and sweet. (i find myself completely and
utterly in love with you, my dear.)
can you read my future in the unfurled petals
that hide forgotten and bitter at the bottom of my cup?
(i want to know if you're in it)-- i'm terrified of not knowing,
but i hide that truth behind our many cups of tea.
and my favorite thing in the world
is bringing you a mug of tea early in the morning
when you're still foggy with sleep, the finality
of your dreams creeping up slowly-- but
for at least a moment, a faint memory remains.
there's a worried crack in my upper lip, split between my front teeth
and you tell me that it's nothing a cup of tea can't fix,
and then i realize this may be the most i have ever thought about tea.