Thin pieces of tea leaves
spun about my silver spoon.
"There's life in these jasmine cups," I thought.
Outside, the streetlights kicked on
and it's getting late. You're not here.
I waited. Your cup cooled, then it got colder,
and it got colder still.
Then it got colder, then I got colder,
then we got colder still.
Thin pieces of branches broke
as I walked back to my car.
"It's been years. It makes sense," I thought until I saw you,
a mountain of cigarettes. I tapped your shoulder.
You cried and had one thing to say.
You said you got older, and you get older still.
Said you got colder; well, did you get older?
And are you here older still?
We talked all night, an ocean drive.
You said things like, "Did I waste my time?"
Your face was light and spoke a life
I can't find anywhere else now.
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