i was meant to make tea for you last sunday

slowly,

steam pouring out of the lid

and i sing your name.

the cupboards are silent,

all open an inch or two

because i don't like to

leave the glasses in the dark.

glasses are meant to

be shone on; 

glasses are destined

for a life of transparency.

not i.

the underneath of my cabinets

are wet and the paint is peeling

from the condensed steam.

i sigh and rip off some of it's skin.

the switch flicks up,

the steam stops fleeing from the kettle.

i reach up for two cups but my hand knocks and the door moves and 

glass snaps and plastic smashes,

plates bounce and cutlery breaks.

my voice hitches and you disappear from my throat.