You were my tea encased in honey dew.
We met on the peripheries of a closed door, embracing each other's unique quirks with the integrity and madness of an artist. We sipped honey-cloves tea and realized the magic potions embedded within its brewtiful surface. We fleetingly brushed against the smoothness of caricatures drawn on its surface, such as the image of Wonderland and the ideal of the homeland. We brushed lips as if they were always smeared with a golden black liquid that could permeate the sharp surfaces and sink in with smooth and masterful delight-shaped manna from heaven.
You were my tea with slivers of sugar which could raise temperatures and send the heart into a throbbing zone of palpitating frenzy.
You might be everyone's cup of tea, but you and I, tea, were always a good fit, because we stood for the same things. We stood for love untainted with anything remotely its opposite. We stood for heart-shaped pedantic wisdom which could be generated in smooth, sharp, and swift strokes. We stood for the way no kettle was large enough to satiate our thirst on rain-drenched days, and books which could last for ages to satisfy the pluviophile's eternal quest for radiant pearls of wisdom.
We were more than cups of tea which could send mornings soaring, afternoons roaring, evenings moaning, and nights snoring.
We were the antithesis to tea in some ways,especially the images it conjured up of Benedict Cumebrbatch and warm scones served on a British tray, with honey and butter. We were more the tea which could blend well with other substances like coffee, and send us into a tizzy of delight, which could send temperatures soaring through heaven, and make our tongues itch with plentiful kisses planted with insane glee.
We were tea with the aspirations of coffee but the heart of a tea-lover with its immense curmudgeon muse and images of a French cafe inhabitated by souls like ours, all devoted to the cause of spreading art in the nooks and corners an crevices of humanity's desert.