Response- Ceramic Pink Pot

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. 

Foreign fingers 

His fingers felt different
foreign

while they traced my skin

lightly, carefully

almost like yours used to

and his lips were a different kind of soft-          as if he was scared                                                 that my dry ones may crumble and break?

his arms wrapped around me securely and 

I was still numb, but I wasn’t thinking of you 

it was only when I allowed someone else to take me to galaxies once familiar to you and i

to let inside my world and see the constellations made up on my freckled body,
when I realized that my world doesn’t orbit around you

I’d rather not dream at all

In my slumber
its your hands around my waist

your fingers tracing my skin

your lips kissing away my pain 

and its your voice whispering all good things to me

but then i wake up

and its your hands that are absent 

your lips on a can of cheap beer 

instead of passionately placed on mine

and its your voice saying to me the things I’d rather not hear

are these dreams or are they nightmares?