Watching you watch me, I make
tea.
I fade out of sight, your
anchor
behind the door. You couldn’t
see,
but heard the screams of
water
molecules turned angry vapor
screaming at me making tea.
Sometimes we drag on the
floor.
Other days go on with toil
and labor
behind a door we cannot see.
Here pages turn. Clocks stop.
Hearts slow.
And sometimes we are boring:
sitting in chairs, screaming,
and making tea.
Grueling on we grind away
at each page, the same one
read yesterday,
the day before, and the one
we didn’t see.
Please don’t go when you
expire,
your life the flowers I
closed
between a book to dry, off-white
and fair.
I want to watch you watching
me
from behind the door.
I want to have you to see.
