The tea in my cup is a mirror pool,
a pensive place of comfort
to gather my thoughts at the end of the day.
Why is it so hard to show passion?
To have dreams that are bursting from your body
invisible to everyone but you
and those select few
you trust and take into your heart,
who have no expectations
because they simply enjoy you
Why is it necessary
to fight the urge to fall into those few,
even though they’d catch you without hesitation,
and you’d easily do the same for them?
To see the look that says they will
if you need it, at any time,
and still not dive?
Why is love so difficult to express
in front of others,
to hold hands, touch nose to nose,
have that same solid certainty in our eyes?
None of the passers by care;
haven’t even noticed.
But there’s still this poisonous awkwardness
lingering in my bones.
I gather my thoughts at the end of the day,
reflecting in a pensive place of comfort:
the mirror pool in my teacup.