The invitation was sent, no need to reply
she knew me better than I knew myself
just the two of us, in a room cloaked by
an inablity to touch the light
the flavor so unappealing, perhaps by an
unpolished pallette that tasted failure,
pekoe splashed with a potpourri of angst
guilt and a heap of self loathing
sitting there with my life in shambles,
staring at the leaves in the cup
fortelling of a great future, only to be
thrown away without caution
empty vessel dangling from a finger
defeat etched upon his brow
wishing my strength upon him
hoping to see life somehow
having already been reserected
from deep, dark apathy
his dejection so familiar
haunting my memory
relapse was out of the question
my will was made of steel
saving his heart was my desire
there is still hope that his heart can heal
