Then I realised
I had referred to a cup of tea
as a “she.”
This is what the loss of
a scruffy Kurt Cobain jumper
leads to. Personification
of beverages. Eating cereal on the floor
in a pool of blue carpet,
next to a burnt ironing board.
Picking out the sharp strawberries like hearts.

Relying on tea instead of
intricate descriptions of kung-fu moves
I pretend to understand.
Wanting its warm sugary arms
to embrace me like a lover.

Tea doesn’t promise
that I will forget
your too-long hair, the permanent stubble.
It knows me better. Doesn’t judge.
I can drink tea
after eating cereal on the floor,
alone and hungry,
and it will still taste sweet.