Faraway Temple

Tea. 6.16 am. Retro-pop
plays on your radio, the cat
yawning and upturned, curling
into a

corner where your quilt acts
as a heater, the spoon tinkers
the air
like a bell, you

remember the temple, don’t you?
Scent of drizzle and white flowers
seducing
the child you, becoming
medicine for sad mornings, slowly
fading away
into one page
of a new book, unwritten

but revisited. Tea, 6.19 am, brewed.
This honey though, weak and plastic,
nothing compares to the beehive, above
the temple wall

smoke rises

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