You asked me once why I felt safe with you
The answer is simple, really;
you speak to me sweeter
than the southern twang
of lightly painted china cups
twinkling with an old tonic
your great grandmother grew up with -

Peach tea,
more sugar than ice
and the chime of silver spoons
stirring away low hanging sky
in a lazy afternoon haze.

You speak to me with the comfort
of a tea cup
cradled by the saucer
lips meeting gently against each other
so as not to scrape a scar against the fragile cheek
of either companion

Sometimes you even whisper
with the rattles of old age
chiming away at the edges
of sweet forgotten bliss -

You, darling, speak to me sweeter
than any grain of sugar
that rubbed me raw.