The tea on my table sits drained
and has done for some time.
A cold ring lying in the china cradle.
My back hurts.
I feel the soft pink leather on my fingers
and it reminds me of my time to count.
I worry there is too little to fill so much.
I ask for a refill
Something soothing in ritual pouring
filling my air with curls of steam
Glance at the watch again.
Suddenly I think of him.
Hope he's doing ok.
I write questions to pass time and stop the slight shaking
i wish someone would close that door
and hope someone will accept me.