Morning Tea

Dawn creeps in through curtains,

spilling onto a bed too big for just myself.

Unwilling to grow

accustomed to such excess space,

I sleep only on my side

should you ever return to yours.

As every other morning,

I give the tea kettle a good shine

before lighting the burner.

Aside from being your kettle,

it is nothing special,

has never surprised me,

yet still I watch with irrational urgency,

fingers crossed.

A bit of honey, squeeze of lemon-

I don’t even care for tea.

This is how you like it,

how I’ll prepare it.

To my disappointment

the water simply boils.

The whistle is not the yawn

of a genie rising from slumber,

steam unprepared to grant wishes.

If only this kettle were Aladdin’s lamp-

I’d have just one wish—

not for your return

to forget you.