Ours. Our cups. Our tea. Our breakfast time.
A chilly Sunday morning, the steam rising into the air. The blue light of early day through the kitchen window. The chill that tea only conquers for a while.
Lights. The orbs of light on the tabletop and floor. Their presence predetermined by sensors in work buildings.
The clear light of later morning. The artificial of the overhead bulbs. I found their circles strangely comforting.
Deconstructed. Much like me these teas are not out together. They are formed in their bags but not serving their purpose. I have walked past them several times this morning. I have made tea, as have others in the house, yet here these sit.
Much like me this morning.
© 2015, Penbleth / L. McG.-E.. All rights reserved.