A Decent Cup of Chai


  1. How do I swallow you
    leaving? Only like tea: perfect and strong
    and warm, some sips at the start, too hot.
    Quick enough so there are no lingering
    tepid dregs.
    -“Tea, a Metaphor, Part I”
  2. Come, let’s make a fresh pot. Clean the kettle
    with vinegar and baking soda. Let it dry,
    scrubbed, new, and yet:
    -“Tea, a Metaphor, Part II”
  3. You have not left. Rearrange
    the chambers in my chest,
    find you a new room there; a new home,
    a single bed was always enough.
    It’s enough now in a different way:
    It’s yours. Just yours.
    -“Only Minor Surgery”
  4. Listen, I really wish your place had a clear
    demarcation between bedroom,
    dining room,  living room,
    hallway. That way, when I remember us dancing,
    I can be more specific than “at his…place”.
    -“Bachelor Pad, Edition: Toronto”
  5.  Close your eyes. I will close mine. Disentangle our threads,
    all the shadow limbs from your single bed. Let me return your fingers to you; I kissed them back onto your hand that last night.

    Draw your line of friendship. I will draw mine. It doesn’t matter
    who is quicker, because when we open our eyes, at least
    one of us will be hurt; at least
    one of us will be scared; at least
    one of us will be guilty; at least
    one of us will be ashamed.

    Listen, it’s all ok: this friendship is big enough for both of us.
    so if you draw over my line, or if I draw too close to you,
    or if neither of us are close, and we feel too far apart, we can still
    swallow the leaving, tremble as we redraw the line to be more
    comfortable.

    I already know our second first conversation:
    “Hi”
    “Hey”
    “It’s good to see you…”
    “You too – how are you?”
    “I’m..good. How are you?”
    “I’m…good too.” Let me make some tea. Two cups. Perfect, like
    the first morning, before I let you kiss me, and you thought it was my policy,
    and I remember so clearly
    how you wanted to.

    We can redraw these lines in the sand; this time, with our eyes open. Somewhere in the middle, between our hesitant feet,
    mine: small, yours: uneven, (yes, I remember 🙂 )
    we will meet.
    -“Boundaries”

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