honey

Susie brought out the big jar of it
afternoon tea and we were gabbing over this or that thing
it was raining, again, the kind you don’t want to be out in
the kitchen stools had gingham pillows
the dog was laying low for a change
nibbling on some matted fur toy
you had not been on my mind
I had driven an hour singing to pop music
then lost the reception heading toward the coast
looked at cows and sheep nonchalant in the storm
the road pockmarked, the wipers frenetic
but inside the car a lack of urgency, all the time
in the world and you were far away from here
the seat empty beside me and that was alright
but then Susie asked, “Honey?”
and you came back in that sweet, thick drip
descending into my extended cup
the tea shedding its purity, making way
just like I did, and willingly
happy for the break in bitterness
and like always I ran my tongue along the edge
wanting that sugar to fill my mouth
the spoon eager, greedy
steam swallowing it in
hot, sweet, stir, stir
my lips, oh my lips, I let them burn
burrowing
because
at the bottom of the cup
I know it
a little pool of you
waiting
like you never did
waiting