I am sitting in the living room.
No, no... that's not right.
The kitchen, then. 
Yes, the kitchen.

I am sitting in the kitchen,
and I am drinking tea
in the manner with which all troubled people drink tea: 
                    
                          with my hands wrapped around the mug
                          the way one would cradle a baby bird
                          that had fallen, head-first, from a tree.

And there must be a metaphor there, somewhere,  for the
ways in which tea-drinking is like living
                                              is like falling
                                              is like being cradled,

but the warmth of the ceramic and the scent of peppermint
is too distracting and, at any rate, I'm not much of  a thinker
and the thought of drinking my tea in the manner with which
all troubled people drink tea is causing enough grief as it is.

So, I let the steam uncurl under my chin and stare through the
window at the magpies in the poplar (all of whom have managed
to refrain from falling out of trees) before returning my gaze to the
pages spread out on the table, mapping the story of the future of
a person I don't yet know  and whom I'm very anxious to meet.

I hope they drink tea.

I can no longer imagine a time where I'm empty;
a time where our wrists haven't met and your bony fingers
aren't fists around my palms, interlocked. We walk,
my tongue is tied but yours is sharp, talking in the dark 
you would say that you're just trying to keep the bad things away.                              "
 Looking for vacancies between ribs and thighs and telling white
lies you know can calm me down, and they do.
Now I still don't feel hollow - I just keep following your footsteps
in the night and doing my best not to put up a fight;
I try not to let go of your hand as you grow taller but
still I'm not shrinking, not yet.
My body is filled with spirits and they weigh me down.
I am heavier now than I've ever been,
with ghosts that won't let themselves be seen.