tea with honey

I like watching you make tea in the mornings. The gentle tinkling of cups and kettle give way to a luscious pouring that reaches my ears with a comforting fullness even before the aroma wafts through to me; my eyes still only half-open, just taking in the sight of you, pouring your cup of tea. I won’t feign to be awake for a while yet, call it ritual if you will. I will lie still, listening to you. The sound of your clothing as you move across the kitchenette, a gently rustle accompanied by the sound of bedroom slippers on old tiles, a familiar and much loved old melody that will never wear away. The honeyed sun is brimming over the window, and as it rises it will burst out of that restraint and pour slowly, languidly, richly into the apartment, lighting up at first your feet and then moving up slowly until, to my sleep-dimmed eyes, you will appear like an angel for a fleeting moment. I will close my eyes then, and hold that image in my mind’s eye, savoring the sense of completion you bring into my life, even before my day has dawned.