Every midnight we sit at the coffee table and we share a cup of tea.
He stays up with me and we discuss things.
Most of the time he just listens.
Other times offers suggestions or he just ignores my questions.
It gets more depressing as time passes,
because every night I ask this one question and
all he does is wipe his glasses.
It's aggrevating as hell and I'm just waiting to tell whether
or not he can even remember the answer...
Or whether or not he's choosing not to tamper with his memory...
Or whether or not he can even fucking remember me.
What a waste of time.
But every night it's that same damn routine:
One green cup of tea and me stuck all by myself once its empty.
Then I'm off to bed with plenty of caffiene to keep me up and thinking.
The cup I'm drinking from is never clean.
I can't remember if it's a dream once I awake and I walk...
From my messy bed and anticipate the next late night talk

Every midnight we sit at the coffee table and we share a cup of tea.
He stays up with me and we discuss things.
Most of the time he just listens.
Other times offers suggestions with his awful expressions.
Altered refelctions...his whole aura is see-through /
With more confessions...I don't want to leave you.
"This cup should be bottomless!"...as my insecurities spill /
I see his face fading away. I surely need a refill /
I purposely keep still and don't move much /
Except to wet my lips with sips. With every kiss of death I lose touch /
I sip the tea carefully because its at the degree of seperation /
Tasting the forked tongue in bi-lingual conversation /
Waiting for his answer still...and at any given chance I will /
Sweet and Low my bitter past...let the cancer kill the small talk.
"Alright, man...this bitter taste in my mouth needs to get washed out /
Ghosts in this house don't have anything timely to talk about."
The concept is dead. There's nothing death should interupt.
I went to bed last night with one sip left in the cup.