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.