The tiled floor is cold pressing into my feet.

The only warmth comes from the steam of my tea resting on the nightstand.

I’d like to know how I survived the winter months without you

where my only friend was a good book and maybe a casual cigarette.

By candlelight, the tea and honey is finding it’s way all the way down,

coating my throat for temporary relief.

What I wouldn’t give for a kiss right now.

You could stir my tea.

I’d lick the sugar clean from your finger,

and it would somehow taste sweeter.