Morning tea is dark
Like the night behind our house
Where the sun lost its way
And the air did not stop to greet our trees.
We gaze at our place where we sat last night
we know
we’ll leave everything behind us
And won’t collect the scattered words between the chairs.
Night was long
The candle is dusty and cold like our fingers
Why do we wait for tomorrow
If only to throw our words like pieces of papers
on the table and leave?
