Young Writers Project: 'The Steps To Making Tea'

Oct 12, 2018

I have never found myself in poetry,
but I think I may have found
myself in your arms,
as we sit in your kitchen
waiting for the kettle.

I watch your soft eyes and parted lips,
sculpted by Aphrodite,
as you silently boil the water.
You have careful fingers
as you pour the hot water
into two red, chipped mugs.
I remember the gentle pressure
of those fingers twisted in my hair.
Curled green leaves lie
with small jasmine flowers,
pearlescent petals
floating delicately in our mugs.
How sweet this vanilla air is,
and for a vivid moment,
you have the effervescent beauty
of a thunderous splinter
of forked lightning.
I sip carefully,
hoping not to burn my lips,
as tentative as the manner
in which I reach for your hand in the dark.
My mouth burns with the taste
of green tea and sugar.
(But I wish it was burning
with the taste of your lips).
I like milk and sugar in my tea,
but you don’t.
You like a spoonful of honey,
golden and warm,
spilling over the sides of the cup,
all sticky and sweet.
(I find myself completely
and utterly in love with you, my dear.)  
Can you read my future
in the unfurled petals
that hide forgotten and bitter
at the bottom of my cup?
(I want to know if you’re in it.)
I’m terrified of not knowing,  
but I hide that truth
behind our many cups of tea.
And my favorite thing in the world
is bringing you a mug of tea
early in the morning,
when you’re still foggy with sleep
and the finality of your dreams
is creeping up slowly...
but for at least a moment,
a faint memory remains.
There’s a worried crack in my upper lip,
split between my front teeth,
and you tell me that it’s nothing
a cup of tea can’t fix.
And I realize this may be the most
I have ever thought about tea.