Lonely breakfasts on the chilliest of springs;
Tangles in my hair, brows pulled weak.
The slick of butter coating my chapped lips,
And slightly frostbitten fingers wrapped 'round a mug,
This bittersweet feeling is one that has lived long in my heart.
Steady crumbs fall in charades,
And stained ceramics bore my hearth,
The warmth that so evades my chest,
And perceives itself, mocking, it is its finest art.
The steady steam rises, bringing heat to my lips;
It drowns out the thoughts
Between long and hearty sips.
For tea, I trade;
My tongue craves the bland between the pleads.
So the pandemonium of my emotions can finally be put at ease.
And in crumpled pyjamas I sit;
Wondering where it all wrong.
The curdled words and curt texts
Have not befitted me strong.
And now I look out a window;
To watch the Sun bleed through the clouds,
The blackout stars have faded,
And rustles the leaves, a soft and sweet wind blows.
In the tragedy of the moment
When the voices in my head have quieted,
And the aching in my heart has dimmed,
When my mug is filled with tea;
Delightfully to the brim.
'Is it really worth it?'
Of two or more worlds
Where suffering and questioning hold equal sin,
Happiness is measured
And love is void to begin.
To this thought I shiver;
Crumpled pyjamas are not my finest.
And it is then my lips begin to quiver,
And the depth of my chest swells,
And the feeling can only grow,
The tears rolling down my cheeks have ventured well.
Crying at breakfast in the chilliest of Spring,
My mind is screaming here for you to be.
Oh,
darling.
What have you done to me?
Points: 223
Reviews: 4
Donate