And I do think of you with every cup I pour. I think of the night you gave me the ceramic pink pot and how we danced together in the kitchen of your old house before going to dinner. And as I pour milk into my tea, just a dab, I think about the morning before when you made me breakfast while I swept the floors and wiped down the counters, helping you clean up our mess. But when I reach into the cabinet for the honey I think of the few times you called me your honey, and maybe it was because you thought I was sweet.. but now I only feel bitter. I don’t sweeten my tea anymore. In fact, I’ve gotten into the habit of steeping my tea too long and drinking it anyways; I’ve become accustomed to bitter aftertastes and forgotten whats supposed to taste good. And I’ll think about the book you gave me that night, and how you may never read the pages I’ve filled inside it.These things will cross my mind with each cup I pour, but I’ll also think about how the scorching steep would feel on my skin. I’d compare it to the emotional pain you’ve burdened me with and pour it on myself hoping that maybe I’m no longer numb, but I’d still feel nothing.