that bring those lemon slices back to my tea
which never quite appealed to you. 
Once in a fair while, as you sit whistling that tune,
hoping I'd be smirking,
I'd hum loudly. Out of key. And tastelessly. 
So consumed in your troubles,
the beer bottles, wines, tabs that are hardly tipped,
the wink in your hypocrisy kissed my pride. 
I flinch now. These days have made me flinch. 
Gratifyingly so, your fingers are louder than
your lips. 
I do not know the taste of your lips. 
No one kisses on Tuesdays.
Maybe Wednesday, but we never see each other
then.