Collusions of chamomile pot their leaves,
talk of bother winds down as he rises
up, smiling at her between sheets of steam
their modesty of silence navigates
while she pleads with wingèd interlopers,
angels roping through her emotion of
flitting lashes their aching hope he will
stay, hitting and then lifting shadows of
heavy lids beneath which untold oceans
of pure azure cry, weeping unspoken
notions he receives, his own eyes opened
to pouring them each one more, another
conspiracy of tea they both hold with
unsteady hands as frozen hearts to warmth
by honesty’s eager ease are stirred, talk
restored when again he sits, takes hold of
his cup and lifts it to his cold lips, tongue
burning against a grin he himself soon
begins to believe in, reluctant to
speak, even still, of everything that
is and won’t be, unable to look straight
across the table and take from her what
one opportunity there never was.