The final word

I want to sip you like wine, to swirl you before I quench my thirst of you.

I want to reach for you, dip some ice and let you burn your way into me.

I want to brew you, to add a spoonful of cream and a bit of caramel and warm up at the thought of you.

But, you…

You come to me in doses, a drip in the morning, a taste in the afternoon and a sip in the evening.

It shouldn’t matter, your coming, and your going, or our longing, it shouldn’t matter.

You come to me when he is talking about a future, when I am supposed to be paying attention to a telephone conference, at the supermarket, in church, in the bathroom, in bed, in a matatu and right now…you want to stay.

You say it’s because it’s time for you to stay.

We have to see this through, you say, and when I make a move to put the pen down, you remind me to reach for a cup of black tea. Tea? Yes, you ran out of coffee, again! You say.

Why is it that you know when to push and when to refrain? Why is it that you know me so well?

I reach out for that cup of tea and you smile, and a part of me knows that I am never getting any sleep until I write the final word. 

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