The straining light of waning afternoon
illuminates our steaming cups and pots
of earl grey, green and chai. Placing my spoon
on my saucer, I stop. All these whatnots,
the cakes he's bought to set my heart at ease,
the scones with jam and cream, we’ve left unstirred.
He smiles at me, and gives my hand a squeeze
while I sip chamomile, this cup my third.
That’s when it slips thinly from my fingers
and shatters. Trembling at the disarray
I watch it seep and spread. The scent lingers
bitterly. He kneels down, face turned away,
and cleans the spill. Mess gone and table laid,
he smiles again, and I’m the one unmade.
