Literature
Morning Tea
It is too early
and the tea has burned my tongue,
extinguishing all taste of you.
The moment before colour
suspends on a breeze
at the curtain
and I imagine you dream of me.
But it is morning already
and I know the sharpness of day
will have erased all softness
from your arms,
you will be once more all angles
for me to bruise myself on.
You will wake with a sigh,
with wanting and need,
with no pleasure tugging at lips.
I will melt into the day
to avoid your frowns and hurried steps,
too cowardly in the bright of day
to slow you with a kiss, a smile.
I know all this before you stir
to break the silence
of morning tea.
