It's another Tuesday afternoon,
The stench of gloom in the air overpowered,
By the smell of sugarless, herbal tea.

I should be on my way soon,
I look down, the eyes of a coward,
Surrendering to words that escape me.

"I’m leaving, on a hot air balloon,"
"I won't be back till the hills are snow cowered,"
"Lifelines of white, against a flat lining sea."

"But I'll be back soon,"
I say, but she's gazing skyward,
"So this is the night, He promised it to be."

"Too many months of June",
"Has my poor heart encountered,"
"It is time for her to be free."

"And if this shiny moon,"
"Were to be crimson and flowered"
"Wouldn't make a better goodbye, than this is to be."

So the birds sang a tune,
We looked back, staring forward,
One final time, we took our first sip of tea.

"If this is to be,"
"Our last cup of tea,"
"May it be with sugar, grandma,"
"Two spoons for you,
Two spoons for me."