you who saw so much of me, and i who gave so little

-
the peppermint tea on the table
piping hot and steaming
not to be cooled down by the weather
or the melancholy thundering.

i write better than i speak
you enjoy my writing most, you do.
knotted thoughts unravelled on paper,
and you scurry to find the hidden 'I love yous.'

love is also a thing that comes
so very, very long after it has died
and very often, only after
it no longer serves to be realised.

i suppose August is for 
very rude awakenings

anger hushed by reason

soft lips now parting to speak softer words
you who saw so much of me,
and i who gave so little.

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