The steam uncoils like a whispered lie,
a ghost in the curl of a tea-leaf,
—black as a raven’s sigh,
but something lingers, steeped too hot.

Not leaves, but darkness, swirling slow,
a stain that clings to porcelain bone,
it pours like ink, but thicker still—
drink deep, and taste what isn’t there.

The throat remembers, it was never just tea,
it was crumpets for you and me,
and the shadow that does not dissolve,
—oh, Sweet, who left their silhouette.