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| Image Source: Huffpost |
I wouldn’t
think of it much
If the tea I
so love to drink
Wouldn’t
have found a genius way
To trickle
down my white t-shirt
Leaving a
stubborn brown stain.
She would
then find her way down
Every time I
wear a white top.
If what I
wear is already stained,
She doesn’t
bother to leave her mark again;
Maybe she
knows to not knock the same door twice,
Maybe she
identifies her own marks.
There are seasons
when I love to wear white
But I can
never wear the ones I own, not again
Because her
scars don’t leave
And I can
never give up on a cup of tea,
So I let her
spill and stay where she wants to be.
If the top’s
not white, she doesn’t bother to drain
Maybe she
knows to not hurt the ones that don’t feel pain.
I never
spill her on my black cardigan-
She is picky
that way, not to fall for anyone.
Every white
t-shirt I have ever owned
Screams of
her taste, of her skin tone,
I wouldn’t
mind losing so many clothes
If it
weren’t for her pickiness
About the
hues she chose.
Because
every time I look at the tea-stains
I am
reminded of my careless mistakes-
Those I
forgot to wash in the rain.
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