my hand reaches for the last tea bag, which I ease
into bone thin floral china.
Water with love first, you always said,
the honey comes later. Outside
where storm has flexed its claws, a porcelain sliver leans
crisp against the hurried rush of clouds.
And this is the one that follows, after Paris
and broken coffee cups.
Dusk is a sheath our senses are dulled in, but tonight
the sudden burst of smoke and copper, threads a tongue with acid.
© Natalia Spencer 2015