In the end, you never came home.
I sat by the door with my arms turning
to dust aching for you to return.
You left the kettle on
and I drowned myself in it.
Chamomile, Earl Grey, Lemon, English
who cares what the sachet says
as long as it's hot and burning
my tongue because every little pain
is a pain I've to endure.
It takes my mind off you.