Poetry: Teasmaid

Teasmaid

by Clare de Lune © 2025

The clink of the spoon

against morning.

I notice,

the way you make my tea,

watching me taste it,

hope flickering in your eyes,

like a small morning flame.

Not right? you ask,

as I take a sip,

already reaching for the mug.

Here, you say,

I’ll make it again.

Like love could be measured

in teaspoons and timing,

like care could be poured

just right.

It’s such a small thing,

but small things

hold the world, don’t they?

I’m sensitive.

Not fragile,

just finely wired.

I’ve built these rituals,

soft repetitions of comfort,

tea the same way,

in the same mug.

Tea first.

Then maybe coffee.

Always that order.

Because I need gentleness

before grit.

And coffee’s a whole thing,

brewed to the edge of obsession.

More grounds, less water,

a dash of milk frothed just enough

to hold the foam,

the slow swirl of maple

if I need sweetness,

a breath of coconut oil

if I need to feel

the soft weight of care
on my lips.

You try to learn it,

this choreography of mornings.

You want to get it right,

and you do, almost always.

I love you for that.

But sometimes

it’s not the drink that’s off –

it’s me.

The space inside feels crooked.

I just need a moment

to realign the small, unseen things.

I’m grateful,

for your patience,

for the way you never make

my sensitivities

a thing to fix.

You smile,

and hand me comfort

in a cup that might not be perfect,

but it’s enough.

Because it’s you,

standing there in the light,

trying again.

And that,

that is beautiful.