look at the liquid he pours
       every dusk, but into his own cup
look how full it is –

notice the elegance of the stream
dripping last from the spout
almost unwilling to let go.

in the cup it maintains its wax
as light reflects upon it
and vapour rises from it,
not disturbing it in sleep.
       it needs to cool, he knows –
       he burns his lip every time

it trickles first like a memory;
of warm beds of grass or waves
       they seem to come in waves.

another cup, and the candour of water changes –
see now how that little leaf
orbits round; like a planet,
       he would have it the other way around
too subject to entropy.

light still swims in it,
in the cup,
making it a waning moon
that still clings and says “timeo”.

this time it’s a kiss, soft and gentle – 
sweet; orbiting still
‘round and ‘round his mouth,
divulging old discrepancies.

touching the wabi-sabi style teacup’s rim
he makes a harmony with the birds outside –
and in the rain repeated, his pouring motion.

another kiss –
warmer, more fervent than last;
it desires and pushes and sweats,
not at all like tea should behave.
remembering it’s not Earl Grey he drinks
he twists his mind to that thing
that connects Tesla, Ford, and moringa trees.
yet such infusions pay no mind to 
spiders, moths, and brown leaves on the patio;
        desperate for the warmth inside
like one body it dances, swirling.

and he straightens his rug
with both hands, like salat.

an embrace this time, comforting,
like the one he wanted today –
like childhood it stays on his tongue,
making him think anew.

“wait, rain, don’t stop
my tea ain’t done!”

impatiently bits of ginger
gush into the cup –
floating there like a little cosmos.

and he drinks,
this one like a reluctant farewell…

“how could you?” 
he asks his empty shell.



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