Careful Hands

We met at a quiet table.
When the days felt heavy,
and our hands had nowhere to be.

He would pour tea into my cup,
china rattling in his hand,
tiny splashes finding the table and my skin,
the overflow of something that was his,
and I let it be.

I knew there would come a day,
when my cup might be too full,
and I would have to set it down.
But the warmth felt too good,
so I stayed.

Steam curled between us.

As the days passed by,
his hands steadied.

Now his eyes rest on the door.
His hands don’t tremble anymore.
The pot now stays closer to him.

When I reach across the table,
he tips just enough,
for a thin stream to find my cup.

Now he pours only a little,
and sets it before me.
with a napkin folded neatly at the side.

The tea is never too hot,
and it never spills.

Sometimes I wish he would loose his grip,
spill and scald my skin,
so the pain would finally make me let go.

But his hand is always careful,
Too careful.

And I,
I am still here,
holding my cup,
watching the steam fade away,
holding what has long since gone cold.

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