Aftertaste

The sheets, no more, lay on the bed
that we both had shared.

My once tasteful cup of tea
had now become stale, and cold,
and sour.

I felt the aftertaste linger for months.

The sonic boom had blasted through
the thatched roof, and the smoke
started to pour.

All that remained was the ash, the
debris of the hostility that I ran
away from.

I decided it wasn’t my cup of tea anymore.

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2 thoughts on “Aftertaste

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