I come to drink my tea, nothing more nothing less, it has been, or it seems, that centuries have past, and I am drowned, drenched, within this utter state of numbness, in which my top priority, my top pleasure, is a cup of tea.
my rain coat is wet, it has been raining for days, my garden my leafs are ever so abandons, and I am inside, drinking my tea, thinking of him.
it has become a routine worn out thought, nothing surprises me anymore, not the beauty of moonlight, or the speed at which my tea becomes cold, or the occasional runaway tear.
I stand before my porch, it is a dim night. and it is a state I have grown ever so accustomed to, a state of pure emptiness, and wretched intangible leisures, and a cup of tea, and an old memory, and a single tear.
a single runaway tear.
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