My Tea Is Cold

Tea, right?

I'm ignoring his speech because I just noticed:

My tea is cold.

How could I have let this happen? 

The water had been boiling, not five minutes back, 

And then poured into my favourite mug,

Which, come to think of it, isn’t really my favourite mug anymore.

Milk had been added, it was true. 

I had bobbed the tea bag up and down a bit, 

Pushed it to the inside wall of the has-been-favourite mug,

Pushed lightly with the teaspoon until every last drop of substance was squeezed into the liquid.

I concentrate on my cup of tea,

Ignoring his pleas, 

His concerns finally being translated,

Into a dialect that isn’t thinly veiled body language.

My cup of tea is cold.

How long has it been cold for? I don’t really want to think about it.

He leaves the room, 

I let out a sigh, Cold tea, how terrible a waste it is. 

You toss it down the sink, 

No questions asked, 

Because you know, 

There is nothing else that can be done to make it what it once was. 

Some people will take those hopeful sips here and there, 

Denying the transformation of a warm pleasure to a repugnant excess.

He leaves with a couple of bags, and says something about coming back for his other things later.

I toss the tea down the sink.