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.