I Will Make You Tea and You Will Love me Again
I’m sure that, one
day, we’ll wake
next to each other,
sunbeams shining in through
sheer curtains onto your
bare chest in bed.
You’re not a morning person,
so I’d let you sleep while
I slip out from under
the covers into the kitchen.
Our kitchen.
Wearing nothing but
my sleep shorts, your
beaten sweatshirt, and the
marks on my neck you gave me
the night before, I’d get
started on your tea.
Earl grey. Chai. Oolong.
Green. White. Black.
I’m sure that, on this
imaginary day in the
future, I’d know your favorite,
but we haven’t spoken
in so long now that
I can’t guess.
You’d wake eventually,
probably around 11 or 12, and
make your way to the kitchen.
Our kitchen. I’d likely be writing,
hunched over my notebook
like a squirrel over a nut,
and you’d swoop in
like my superhero, giving me
a reason to take a break.
We’d throw on some vinyl,
perhaps The Smiths or
The Strokes, and sway in
our kitchen to the
singsongy melodies that
we love so much. You’d hold
me in one arm, gripping the
lukewarm cup of tea
in the other.
We’d be so caught up
in our dancing and our being
in loveness that, hopefully,
we’d forget about the
days when we tried
long-distance but failed. The
days when we blocked
each other’s numbers,
screaming fuck yous at
one another. The days
when I told you I hated
you, not realizing how
badly my words hurt you.
I’d hope the tea would make
you love me again–a bridge
of repair, an apology
without an apology, because
I’ve never been
too good at those.
One day, though, maybe
I’ll learn and
earn the chance.