Steam

I just wrote to tell you

that I think of you

Every evening

when I pour my tea. How the steam

rises, ethereal, but with such

Bold Purpose-

How it clings to my skin, its touch Warm,

moist. Such heat for a moment

a brief moment, and then

it Fades-

I think of you every time

I pour my tea, and I wish

with all the fervor of the pot’s howling shriek

that the steam would kiss my face

for a moment, Just a moment

longer. That when the whistle cries out, Screaming,

in Ecstasy-that it would last.

Stay.

Linger.

Oh but if it stayed, if it lingered,

it would not make me think of you.

No- if it lasted, I’d not think of you

at all.

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