Sitting at the kitchen table, the only perpetual inhabitant
of this space. I sip my mug, thoughtlessly staring at Timothy in
a world of his own on the opposite side of the pane.
Frosted morning dew clings to his long legs, decorated with small stripes of black and brown.
His careful silk, imperfect and beautiful, waits patiently, silver lines glistening in
the sun, decorated with drops of jewels he finds a nuisance.
The artist sits in the middle of his
ignored masterpiece, pretends to be unseen.
Yesterday’s dinner already cleared.
My mind wanders into my milky mug, various shades of
soft suede, reflecting a face lost in eternal
tea. I drag the muddy bag out by it’s string, ask the
random drops silent questions as they fall.
An invisible hand spins the trapped leaves faster
faster until it stops. Reassess itself, turns around to spin again.
I throw the teabag away.