I wonder what your eyes would look like reflected in a cup of tea; would China color them curious, or something a shade closer to introspective? If I had felt your gentle hands wrap around porcelain stories, I would have been content. So often had we sat on opposite sides of the table, our knees nearly brushing. Our feet nearly entangled together to create a beautiful story, but we stopped one shy breadth away from permanence. I looked into the teacup before me, as you looked into yours. I stared at my own reflection through the dark, almost black liquid. In English Breakfast tea, there was a broken girl who longed to take your hand in mine. Everything about me seemed shaded in darkness, through the reflective truth of the hot, boiling water. My eyes weren’t quite in focus, my cheekbones no longer sharp, and all I could see was the barest smudge of my lips. I wondered what you could see in your Dragonwell tea, a green tea I had imported from the depths of Tianjin, Beijing, Shanghai. Did you see yourself? Was everything clearer to you, than it was to me? Did you see the future played out, or the past? I wanted to look up and stare into your depths. I want to know the true colour of your irises, but you don’t know mine, either. So we’ll stare into our porcelain teacups, and wait for the courage to take each other’s hand.

1:31 pm  •  8 February 2012  •  59 notes