Hot spring light pours into each room of my flat,
Cool air fills all the spaces left,
The steam from my mint tea lifts into my nose and reminds me of all the mint teas I've sipped over time,
In vast, cold cafes of museums with my mum,
In damp festival fields sprinkled in orange light from ferris wheels and burger vans,
In shaded gardens over lunch, brunch, tea and breakfast,
And on fiercely cold nights with candles flickering off of every wall, tea held right to my nose making my cheeks tacky from the steam.
There's comfort in mint tea, like crocheted blankets and gravy and hot mash and staring at a body of water when everything feels ******,
I could draw a map of me using mint tea as a compass,
Crisp, and hot.