I like black tea.
Brewed to perfection.
The sweet aroma wafting through the air,
inviting me to come inside
and sip the drink from my very own lips.
Only the tea-kettle stays on the stove
with no one to brew the tea.
Hot tea with no comfort.
Is it even worth it to drink Shai?
The mint leaves are dry
and the sugar pot’s almost empty.
Once, there was a jug.
On our table, with two cups.
Amber-colored.
The light green mint leaves would float in my cup,
and I’d scald the tip of my tongue
every time I took a sip.
The kitchen walls now echo
when I call out your name.
And I know you won’t answer.
Cold tea has never been my thing.