Memory steeps to forgetting like
a teabag
left to grow cold
in the mug,
And there are my eyes,
floating
in the currents that I stir into being,
Just out of reach,
The tea tastes like honey and something else
I can never quite place,
a flavour that tugs
at familiar divots in my tongue
But never gives up a name,
Another ghost in
this empty house.