Tea With Milk
He turned a page, read for a bit, then bookmarked it,
He then stood and knocked on the door; my door,
I opened it and invited him to a cup of tea with milk,
He took a step then stood still and opened his mouth,
I tilted my head just a bit to show that I will listen,
But he closed it and continued walking to the table.
I sat on the carpet crossing my legs as he did, too,
He folded his arms as if cold then picked up the cup,
And sipped whilst glaring at me through the steam,
He placed the teacup back to its saucepan, ‘cling’,
He opened his mouth and spoke of the past; history,
I fixed few errs and agreed on many series of events.
He spoke of tomorrow and I disagreed on everything,
He spoke of marriage, of weddings and a bit of love,
He spoke of copious grandchildren and a bit of love,
He spoke of age and time and death and a bit of love,
His warm proud gaze broke itself into the self of me,
Aware of the mirror in front of me as I take another sip.
Tuesday, 24th of May 2011
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