She left the Spoon

She left the spoon to say “I was here”.

Table wet, aroma of her fleeting, wind slowly chattering.

Little trails of plotline and tension have left their pee-marks upon the warming snow and fallish leaves where no one dares to explain to me why she’d recome.

A goodbye is a thing to be honored and kept.

Who transgresses such a blood-sponged diary of delicate rules?

She had.

Nothing like Southern Tea says “I’ll get through it”.

Perhaps that was her message.

I’d like to call her many words.

I yearn to banish her to loneliness and a painful chest.

But how to be done, when she leaves you tea?

With her spoon in it.

There was nothing left for me, no thing but to drink those leaves of pretty, rotten, fragrant and refreshing water.

The leaves there to tell me it might yet be okay.

The sound of the spoon as I clink against glass:

It reminds me of her.

One more time.

The soul it grinds like powdered crispy herbs, and flavors the earth, with its pain and knowledge, virtue and vice.