dirty chai

Steaming something like peace

into nothing-air,

steeped four minutes

in magic, or milk.

She’s spice and a species,

oolong blood and

earl grey eyes,

kindhearted like cinnamon

or melting snow.

His breath is bitter,

and he is more caffeine

than she can suffer.

Espresso, no sugar, no milk,

angry sometimes. Sometimes

electric.

“But maybe we can be friends,”

she says, because what are they both

but a place to be warm?

April 9, 2024