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.