Tepid tea

​​

her life is a mug
left on the counter
while the day goes off
to do something loud.

no steam.
no bite.
just that sad warmth
like a handshake from a guy
who wants to borrow money.

she used to think she’d be whiskey--
something with teeth,
something that burns and intoxicates
and makes the room honest.

instead she’s this--
thin brown water
with the string still hanging out,
like a little white flag gone dingy forever.

people come to her
when they want softness,
when they want easy.
they put their mouths to her rim
for a minute,
take what’s warm,
then leave her where they found her,
quiet and handled,
behind the sugar jar
like an afterthought,
like a number they won’t save.

she’s got opinions, sure,
but they dissolve too fast.
she’s got dreams, sure,
but they steep too long

and come out tasting like regret.

and the worst part is
she’s not even cold.
cold would be a statement.
cold would be clean.

she’s lukewarm--
the temperature of “maybe tomorrow,”
the flavor of “it could be worse,”
the color of “good enough
if you don’t think about it.”

some mornings
she stares at the sink
and she swears
she can hear the faucet laughing.

then someone comes in,
half-asleep,
drops a lemon slice into her
like it’s a rescue plan,

and she lets it happen--
because even weak tea
wants to believe
it’s one small thing away
from being chosen.

but the day always moves on,
the mug stays,
and she sits there
with her tired little warmth,
trying to remember
what it felt like
to be hot.

​

© Sreedhari Desai