I slowly lift the tea bag up and watch it
Then I wrap the string around it, wringing out the loose drops.
This cup of tea is an illusion.
It claims to be comforting.
I clasp its warmth in my dry hands
And my own stale breath rises to greet me as I
Blow on the hot auburn liquid. Sniffing steam.
Surely a real writer sits in the cold, dark morning sipping hot tea.
Surely a real writer doesn’t get caught up staring out of the window
Into the darkness of the snowy morning…instead of writing.
Surely a real writer doesn’t think too much.
Surely she isn’t scared of the words hitting the page
Making them real.
Making herself real.
Words, memories, dreams piling up
Reconstructing the past
Wishing I hadn’t thrown so much away
Wishing I remembered me more.
What I said, wrote, did, how I acted.
Long before this morning’s cup of tea.