Tea

I gave you the edge of reason, and there it sat, unattainable to your trembling hands

Gifts like these feel like poison rather than kindness, rather than, the warmth of tea

I gave but it became a burden, alongside hope, that loses its sparkle and you feel that tug of breathless crush on your chest

I could squeeze it into your hand, a gift, my hand to yours, but it’s too heavy now—perhaps in the morning light it will feel weightless and smooth like the sunrise

Reason, edge upon edge of it, slicing, gutting the soft bellied things

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