bitter tea

Up at one and sipping bitter tea,
I'll write a poem about you and me.
So much in time, the left unsaid,
the buried truths, old ground to tread -

- "gently" said thee, not quite honestly.
What universal wisdoms will be willingly
divulged and twist the knife? I see
not much in murky misery,
so I'll keep to writing about me.

What's not tainted by you? I seek
not reprieve but grist to feed
a machine of unrelenting ennui.
Some semblance of life, maybe?

Maybe the one who's left will breathe
it in, and you, who's right, will leave.
But careful what you take with you
and leave me the loneliness I'm due.

I won't ask anymore of you, so do
as I do: forget, and learn to love anew -
- an emotion easily abused, and used,
and in the end refused.

I'll take responsibility.
What could I have done differently?

Maybe every line will be a suicide note?
On and gone, our life's footsteps wrote.
To stand along or to stand alone?
One mote of life, half-emoted tone.

And on this night, at not quite one
or two, or even none -
I'll sit here drinking bitter tea,
alone and lost in memory.

there is a certain moment i'm trying to evoke. i'm really quite proud of this one, despite how dishonest it all feels. i'm not sure where it all came from.