This morning,
Instead of whistling,
My teapot moaned.
What does this mean?
That today will be like all the days before?
But maybe worse?
Does it see
The darkness in my heart steeping?
That my heart is left abandoned?
In its customary place?
Filled with the bittering taste?
Of love forgotten?
Or,
Picked from a sunny hillside,
Packed in a brightly lit room,
And left to fade,
In a small paper bag,
In a small cardboard box,
In a dark, mouldering cupboard?