Tea.

Maybe tea is an accurate representation

of the human heart.

Maybe I’m just crazy.

Water

clear, glossy and pure

is foundation and stepping stone

all in one.

You can drink it alone, warm or cold

or infuse it, colour it, add to it,

but you can never take away what it started out as.

In the process of brewing,

you’ve got to bring water to a boil;

get things simmering, shake it up a bit,

get the ball roiling, if you get me.

Then you add in the catalyst,

a bag of leaves.

Now watch.

Clear water all shook up

from the heat of the moment

being addled with the colours of fall

reds and browns, orangey tinges leaking

into the water spindly arms weave around, grasping for hold.

Finally, the clear is not so clear,

it has evolved into something so much more.

A beautiful brew has emerged,

ready to delight the senses with its warmth, its spice,

but you forgot about it.

You left the kettle on the back burner,

it slipped your mind.

You can come back for it all you want

but it’s a wasted opportunity;

you left the leaves in,

so now it’s cold, dark and

bitter.

You lost track of time, and now it’s useless,

wasted resources sitting in stalemate.

So you throw it out, and you resent yourself

if only for five minutes. Why did you make a pot of tea,

when you could have made a cup?

Created dishes, wasted water, used the last of the milk

drained a bag of leaves for all its worth,

expended energy for no reason.

Excess work

because you were thirsty.

What does this remind you of?

Once upon a time

you stole an extra minute glancing at the boy

and your all-too-new heart stuttered,

bubbled and boiled,

like the water in your tea.

You bubbled and boiled,

the heart on fire.

Then the catalyst dropped,

the boy sort of knew

(only sort of)

and you didn’t want him to.

(only sort of)

that’s when the tendrils snaked around

sweetening and spicing everything up.

The colour of conversation changed dramatically

from light to dark the longer you kept your mouth shut.

Its been a few months now,

everything under wraps and only now do you look,

and all you can find

is the bitter brew you’ve stewed.

You should have opened your mouth

before this.

But you didn’t

and now your tea is

bitter and cold,

palatable, but unsavoury.

Like tea,

there isn’t a lot you can’t fix

with patience and (sugar) sweetness.

So pour in your sweet side

and see what happens.

Iced tea, anyone?

Said and done

After all is said and done

will you think to yourself

was it worth its weight in gold?

Often repeated,

my favourite phrase; never regret

something that made you smile.

Well, don’t.

Don’t you believe in the reasons

behind what drive these mistakes?

After all,

you were always living in the moment,

minute.

Living spree, so carefree!

The kind of care that turns into

careless-- with the things,

the things around, surrounding you.

But.

With everything said and done

what do I think to myself?

No regrets, just the useless decay

of useful tears time and love.

There is no room for waste anymore,

so I won’t waste another word

for they are priceless;

what we put into the atmosphere

is irretrievable,

unchanging.

Are band-aides big enough?

It’s a bit past spring

spring cleaning that is,

and I’m sweeping;

Sweeping up, sweeping away

every last vestige

of you.

And oh god, it hurts.

Did you know

how much it hurt

when you left?

You were my scab,

as bad as that sounds.

You were thick and tough,

and you clung to my skin

keeping in the bleeding,

hiding my wounds.

And too soon, too soon,

you ripped yourself off and

away you fluttered,

slowly at first

because I could still see you,

and then

out of sight you fell,

gone in the wind.

So I grew a new scab,

it blossomed where you left off,

and as time went on

your voice faded from my mind

and a shiny layer of scar tissue

is all I’ve got left of where you used to be.