Mornings sigh the remnants of nights spent dreaming
Faint whispers of a restless heart -- intoxicated, yearning
You are moonlight slipping through my fingers
Gone with the dawn but your promise of tomorrow lingers

Across from her,
on the other side of the steam
kissing a tea cup goodbye
sat an empty chair of
what could have been.
A dessert for two
with one unused spoon
and concealed regret
occupied the space
where intertwined hands
clearly should have been.
But through the veil
of fabricated loneliness
that tried to fog her eyes,
a single smile of remembering
something someone said or did
started to give her away.
Suddenly it was a child
who sat there with eyes
gleaming like Christmas
morning in the land of
maybe-dreams-do-come-true,
and everyone in the room
turned to see no one
walk through the door that
her eyes softly gazed upon
before settling on a table napkin
where she resumed writing
a poem dedicated to the one
who never showed up.

Sometimes I forget
these are demons in my room
sipping tea with me.