What a fine kettle of fish....

If I were a tall glass of water, it would be easy for him to drink me down, without challenge.

Oh, but I am more comparative to a hot tea.

Full of flavor, hard to consume at first, but with time and patience, I am quite enjoyable and I go down more refreshing than a simple sip of plain water.

Added spice and delight that will keep you... warm through the night.

So why doesn't he just let me steep, just a bit more?



In good time the kettle will whistle, reminding us of the time spent waiting.

Then we will know that the water is ready.

Like the leaves of tea, I swim around gracefully, bewitching you as you stare.

You lower your face to gently breathe in the aroma.

How is it that you feel so alive?

Am I more of a delight than you expected?

And you thought you could change my flavor by adding more sugar.

You'll find that I am much more enjoyable just the way I am.

I'll never change for you.

Awe, yes, I am stubborn.

Almost as black as the mug you hold so tightly.

I am unfamiliar, a bit terrifying, but you'll find that I'm adventure.

Take a sip.

Let it warm you all the way down.

You'll never understand what it is that makes you want more.

Strong flavor, makes you second guess your love for this herbal blend.

But still, you take another sip, smooth.

Not so hard to drink after time slips by, dancing in rhythm with patience.

All my thoughts pour out with every sip.

What a wonder it all is.

Am I really too much?

Leaves float at the top of my pool of flavored chemicals.

They must have escaped from their underwater chamber.

I don't mind, they keep me busy, trying to keep them in their place.

Tea is everything but simple.

Eyes

One of these days he'll catch my stare and we'll learn how to share this life. And we'll wipe the water from our eyes as we dive into the rest of our lives.

Singing but never choking on watered down lies, always looking forward, never back.

We'll sit crossed eyed and never really care if people stare.

For we already know what it means to be lonely, and it doesn't really matter anymore. We are the bud of youth and the spring of life still learning how to love.

We've accepted who we are and never let our hearts bleed out our insecurities. Mop in hand we clean up the messes of our lives.

It used to hurt when we stepped on sharp objects, but now we find them under our skin, as if they were always a part of us. These aliens beneath our skin.

We are the toes of life, holding each other up in perfect balance. Breathing in and out the equilibrium of pure passion.

When molecules turn to dust and frailty invades, our hands will be intertwined, wrapped up in purest delight.

Someone lost the manual to our lives, sometime before we got ours.

Lost is just another word for adventure as we move through life. Cutting holes through the defined lines of acceptable things, our own paths are drawn out understated.

Our hearts will beat to the rhythm of the rain washing our laundry hung out on lines for everyone to see.

We never really care what might happen if our inadequacies are exposed.

We'll paint the sky with the fire in our eyes, and the hope inside us will never die.

One mark below beauty.

One step above ugliness.

Somewhere lost in mystery.

There, we will dance in the silhouette of each other, your hand perfectly in mine.