I asked myself over a warm cup of tea, "what kind of beauty is there in finding mystery in yourself?"
I took a little sip, and had more thoughts.
And so I scribbled, a few words on a piece of paper.
a fine day indeed to be playing Thelonious Monk,
one of my favorite Jazz pianists.
y'know, his music has a certain type of soul to it, something inviting about it. I dunno.
with that cup of tea still in hand, I listened to the ocean dance while Monk rushed over the piano keys.
that cup of tea smelled like years of fear and peace to come.
that cup of tea reminded me of the first time I burnt my finger with a candle when I was still a kid.
that cup of tea reminded me of my first love.
it reminded me that I'm still 17, it also tasted like conversations I had with friends about girls we'd never have.
"that girl. she's the one, you'd probably have a chance with her. say something, you shy mo'fo."
but then again it wasn't about probability.
it tasted like 5AM in the morning after your first breakup.
it tasted like 4PM when you wrote your first poem.
it tasted like bitterness.
the tea tasted like my love for things that have aged.
'65 Mustangs and inked pages.
ripped jeans and new faces.
jazz music and new places.
its funny what tea can do one's mind once it burns your tongue and runs down your oesophagus to warm your lungs.
Monk's music in the background, I still scribbled words on a piece of paper.
if only this moment could linger.
cup of tea, cup of tea, what type of flavor did you leave in me?
see, when i stare at this cup, it seems as if it holds unneccessary emptiness.
but can still hold my deepest desires in liquid form - a warm cup of tea.
I probably wrote all of this after I burnt my tongue with tea.
but then again, this isn't about probability.
this is from the deep of things, with love.
sincurlyxbaki
