Old Tea Cup
Your old tea stained cup sits on the table, staring at me. Making the gentle suggestion to wash it. I lift it reluctantly, Lipstick marks still visible. I can still smell your perfume,if I hold it really close. I feel my heart tug and it makes me want to shove it to the back of the cubboard, unwashed, like a way of preserving you, For a while longer at least. I never knew this was the last cup of tea I would make you, Or that this would be the last natter over elevenses we shared. If I did, I would have savoured every last drop, and hung on to every last word. I'd give all the tea in China, for one more cup of typhoo—If it was with you.