I no longer have the desire or strength to write. I'm tired of pouring my false fictions, my little dream ends by pretending not to believe.
I write and think as I buy a tea machine in college, four yellow pieces to slide into the slot and one or two key presses: for months, the cup was there; it fills up, I expect the chirp feverishly and liberating. I want sugar, but I am afraid to burn their fingers and lips. I forgot Brewed color too and the taste of Ceylon. The last time was last winter and since that day I tried everything to keep my hands warm, sheltered from the cold . thrust into the pockets of my pea coat, mittens, gloves, mittens, fists connected against the warm breath of my mouth useless. Darjeeling, ginseng, mint, lemon. Nothing did. It is not my heart, my hands are cold, all red and cracked, to the wrist, up my watch too much. (You know, black.) Always right wrist. To think that I am deliberately leaving them out, my hands hanging and dead, that you take in the yours. Myself, I would never drag them in your pockets.
But it's too long to explain. Unless you take your afternoon, and you offer me tea.
