Black tea and bergamot,
dining with high society.
Sweet, sour, bitter pangs of misery
all at once. Enticing me.
Spending time with the duke caffeinates me,
I feel a sugar rush; a high.
Uncontrollable,
as we — his high tea ladies — stuff ourselves
with the lies he tells,
maintaining our impeccable postures.
We sip his poison,
His compliments, flirtatious flatteries,
With the tips of our pinkies
Raised to the marbled dome sheltering our secret circle.
The most exclusive High Tea Society
for the most private Duke.
He never let anyone in,
keeping his secrets encased safely in his ceramic shell,
Spilling the tea on everyone else’s drama,
never revealing the real side of his scented soul.
Be careful not to overstep him,
Over-steep his Earl Grey leaves,
Overdose on him.
Because with too much time,
he becomes unbearable.
Bitter. Acidic. Toxic.
His Earl Grey heart is shriveled,
withered like tea leaves…
My Earl Grey Duke,
See you at 4 tomorrow.
