runs through my veins, rigid and obscure and reassuring,
galvanizes me when I am close to succumbing.
I see you for two hours here and three there, but passion requires more
than specks of time that denote torture and malaise.
It’s been two weeks since our last intimate collision,
a chaotic meeting of appetite and exhaustion,
and like the caffeine coursing through my bloodstream,
a nectar of lavender & chai & cataclysmic desire,
your presence is fleeting.
A cup of tea
can wash away an entire day,
but what do you do when lemongrass grows
in your lungs? Vanilla has wafted on the edge
of my tongue since you left, its sweetness
decaying into mulch each time I speak,
and at the end of the day I cannot find
absolution. You uprooted my sanity
and left behind lavender thoughts
and chamomile memories, but sometimes
the tea scorches and burns and rots.
Now, I only take my tea iced.