The taste of dish soap lingers
on the rim of the teacup. You
and I sit at crossroads, legs
dangling over cliffs. This is
an exercise in communication
by proxy, messages hidden
in the fold of an arm. Coltrane
murmurs in the background like
a roommate, and the television
is switched off. This is timeless,
this is the way we freeze-frame
our lives, this is how it’s always
been. Quiet slips into the tea.
Outside, the world loiters on to
the beat of its own heart, clouds
passing strangers, averting gazes
onto the street. Your irises cross
the street too, leaving without
goodbyes. I get up and walk
into another room, empty,
but I don’t come back.
The teacups are left
in the sink, soaking
Written for UCD LitSoc’s Writer’s Bloc! It’s a fun workshop where we get to do short writing prompts within a limited time span. Really encourages stream of consciousness-based writing as well! Also, I realise the tea cup in the featured image isn’t exactly the type of tea cup that would fit here but I couldn’t find an image I wanted. Sorry!