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Blueberry Tea

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I drink you in tiny sips
from a fine white china teacup,
tinted violet
from blueberry tea.
The heat burns a little as it goes down,
but it's sweet and delicious
and so much warmer than
the cooling November rains
and the air that accompanies dusk's darkness,
the crisp, heavy breaths that paint the trees black.

It's my favorite time of day, in my favorite weather,
and even though I'd freeze to death
or drown from the liquid in my lungs
I want
more than anything
to pull you close to me
and press my lips to yours
and have the only thing separate us
a thin, icy film of raindrops
suspended on our skin.
I want to let the wind sweep us closer
so that we can't tell my skin from yours
and every ounce of heat present in our bodies
is reserved
to keep the other warm
until we give up and dash back to the shelter of home, laughing,
and envelope ourselves in a shared blanket
sipping a cup
of blueberry tea.





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