The guests are filling the other room,
and still you lie here,
pretending to sleep.
You’ve got your headphones on-
but your not listening to any music.
In the other room, Adjil is being passed from hand to hand.
The platter of fruit has ben set at the center of the table.
Small knives attack the thick skins of pomegranates,
make waste of apples,
leave the hairy skins of kiwi like pencil shavings on crystal plates.
And still you lie, pretending to sleep with your eyes open,
gazing out the window.
Come now, why do you insist on taking your tea so lightly colored?
There’s a darker brew waiting-
the color of amber, reeking of tanin,
still holding it’s leaves.
It has stories to tell you.
It plans to keep you laughing through the night.
So many possibilities swirl at the bottom of its delicate,
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