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.