In my house’s yawning, rotting, horror movie kitchen,
There’s a teabag in the drawer
of my favourite tea
that I was going to make for you when we met.

Now, we’re not going to meet.
I refuse to make it at all.

I avoid even touching it;
the only time I will ever hold it
is to take it into my room to keep
or to keep in resin.

I don’t want to waste that memory, that potentia
Of a piece of future I had
where we turned out okay.

© CarmeFormIhn