Do you still have my tea?
I looked for it in the cupboard.
Could not find it.
Then I searched for your auburn hair
and could not find it,
not even aging in my hands
or fallen, swept under couches.
That tea was brought from my friend
from Hong Kong.
I wanted it to warm my feet.
But the kittens you brought in
from the street, then left behind,
now serve this tribal purpose.
They are looking for you in their pupils.
They see excellently in the dark.
They meow your name.
It contains two syllables in the twilight.
There’s not a lot of light around here lately.
I’d like to find that fucking tea.
The gas burners could glow and burn for me.
But I believe you’ve taken it to New York
or sent it on a wondrous journey to the city dump.
I believe in wondrous journeys,
things like our lost love, torn from the stars.
We could be making a different kind of story.