I remember two or three weeks ago, a lady asked me what I do when I cannot write. She asked if I’m one of those who try to fire up my system by drinking coffee. Smiling, I revealed my secret, and added that I’m truly more keen on tea than coffee. With this she was surprised, her eyes widening like I’m the only young person she knows who enjoys warm tea, the kind you get in a pot without milk, the sort old people drink. I found that conversation really funny.
This Bad Poetry Weekend post I dedicate to that exchange. If you must know, I’m even drinking tea now as I type this. It sounds mundane but there is something therapeutic about making a cup and it is really one activity that I will never tire of. You know what, while I’m no tea-making expert, in the event that you and I shall meet, I promise to make you a cup while we sit down and talk and hopefully have a grand time. 🙂
A Cup I’ll Never Share With You
I drink tea a lot; it soothes my itchy throat,
Relieves my bad cough. There is comfort in
The routine of making a cup, boiling
Water, adding tea and honey, squeezing the
Lime, letting it steep; finally taking
A corner, having a sip. I make it in the morning,
After lunch, before I go to sleep – I’ll always
Have tea for it makes me feel warm. Tea makes
Me feel okay. The heat stirs my soul, the taste
Whispers encouragement to my damaged
Heart. Whatever shall I do without it?
It’s the only cure I know to forget
The cold and sorrow after you are gone;
The only cure I know to the searing pain you left
Behind. The void you created I drown with
Never ending cups of tea. I know how to make it.
I can rely on it. It is life affirming. My heart is safe.
Cups of tea will not hurt me. Unlike you.