finish

You like your tea with three teaspoons of milk. I don’t know why you do and I always remember to tell you how terrible the milk is – it takes the whole point of drinking tea away. Because you like something for itself, of its purity, and yet you taint your drink with an opposite too much.

Now I’m sitting here with too much milk in the cup, and I’m hoping you’ll come around soon; I’m wishing that you’ll laugh your obnoxious laugh: way too loud, way too obvious. I sit here alone, my grip on the table a little too strong. My knuckles are turning white; the rush in my blood is so loud I can’t hear at all.

I wonder why I feel so hurried, it’s not like I don’t have time.

I’ve been waiting an eternity for you; I can wait for another…can’t I?

My fingers tap against the ceramic impatiently as I stare into the swirly contents of the teacup – and the milk’s still there, the cup’s still full –

But it’s going bad now, and the sky is telling me about the things that will forever stay impossible. I’m supposed to stay still and pretend the light’s always going to be in front of me; your tea’s still warm, I tell myself.

Your tea is warm and you’ll open the gate with your eyes shining and you’ll say: “You didn’t throw my milk away right?” Then you’ll shake your head, laugh, and peer down into the cup.

I’ll roll my eyes and –

I hope the cup will be empty soon. Because…because everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?

i know this is shit but it's been lying in my documents for such a long time and i just couldn't stand not doing anything with it so. there you go.