There's mascara running down the folds of my faded pillow and it's not that anything is even that wrong. Please, don't think that I'm one of those attention seeker types, because that's not it at all - I swear. Or is this one of those moments where "thou doth protest too much" makes perfect sense? I remember nibbling on your shoulder, starving for your attention and now I wonder if you've ever needed anything from me with enough fervor and ferocity to actually beg for it (me). I wonder if the single drops that quenched my parched lips so effortlessly when you weren't around have ever been enough for you. And I know it's sad to say this since I fought you every time you tried but I miss the potential of having a light something to eat or drink while indulging in a conversation more hearty than I could ever be. The fact that there are no guests knocking on the door at three in the afternoon or even at three o five breaks my heart. So here I am, alone, waiting for the violet kettle to whistle
with a tray full of cobalt speckled blueberry scones and airy white, sweet cream to balance out the tart of fruit picked too early - or maybe it's only there to subdue the pain of opinions varied from your own. Either way, it is enticing and I wish it could do its job more properly. Slowly, I'll stir the milk and two sugars into the dark mixture watching the shapes play leap frog in awkward motion,
humming along with the delicate, lacy clink of the metal spoon chiming against the porcelain cup. It's just not the same now that I know that not everyone has to make do with
breadcrumbs.
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