Between the sips...
We eye each other,
Looking for new tantrums.
The tea bags hang,
Soaked in the pot.
And colour of golden brown.
Certain things untold but heard.
Certain things still hang over our head,
Like clouds over the moon.
Moving when the winds move,
Carrying to our lips...
Between those sips.
When you hold me in your gaze,
Imprisoned for moments
Enchanting; the curled lips invite,
For another sip.
This time it's me...
Longing for your sip
While I feel the warmth
Of the sip in your breath.
I shy away thinking
The flavor you might add
To the kiss on my mind,
That my lips wait for.
