He is sipping honey lemon tea that is
slightly too sweet and scalding his tongue.
we wait for it to cool down
while each of us silently explains the fragility
of hearts.

I can’t tell what he is thinking
but his handful of silvery white hairs
glimmer and smile under the bright lights of our
cheap coffee shop.

We are only imagining a real conversation,
one laced with heartfelt statements and
a satisfactory end. But our tea cups have emptied
more quickly than I had hoped
and too suddenly, with a forged stride and an empty arrogance
I am walking away.

and my wasted love is a torn bag
in that cup of tea,
speckling my hands with black remnants of the grain.
And what I have remaining
are short words in my heart, that is all.