The kettle sings
she dances towards me

she pours mine
and then her own

honey drips,
chamomile
with hints of mint

spoons clank
I stir too fast
she breaks her biscotti
and gives me half

We cheers porcelin rims
she smiles at me
our day begins

feathered daydreams
semantically encoded heartache
we all remember
i remember

where we came from
we never go back to again
rationalizing pain until it
becomes a drum
and it echoes

i fall down the stairs again
hit my face on the tile
and when my lip bleeds
it comes as a relief

two-pence for lovers
a penny for thoughts
shots of chamomile to chase the night time
away

butterfly beats
ba-dum ba-dum
ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum
fluttering
like eyelids longing for greater ends

spit out that memory
pull it out of your ears
maybe it doesn't really
matter anymore

dripping in your love
i find myself licking each finger
and savoring the sweetness.

your approval tastes like chamomile,
blackberries, and melted icecream.
the taste of you is even sweeter.

to be here
drenched in your affection
is the most saccharine dream
i could ever hope to imagine.

On the eighth day she coined the word Poetry
And I savored the syllables, dipped them in silence,
Just so I could remember a time before her.
A time where I didn’t know, and she didn’t tell me.

I threw away an empty box of tea,
The blue label read, Chamomile
A mug sat on the counter, never a chance
To plead half empty
                                      or half full.

She sang without opening her mouth –
A foreign language. And I savored the syllables
But don’t remember what they tasted like.
Something calming perhaps.

Maybe one day I’d be able to speak her tongue.
Then she wouldn’t need to tell me.
I’d find a new box of chamomile,
And savor the syllables.