Palais De Thé

it's difficult to discern, with all these leaves swirling
in my cup
like laughter almost
ridiculous.
i think that i can pick it up
the things not said
or lingerings unlingered
anymore,
and i think that i can read your book
between your words.
sometimes my currents
flow haphazard
skipping
and i wonder at it all, in you
and me
and these
eyes belong to you.
in ways the tea cannot fathom,
in my cup
at the bottom,
no longer floating.
is it me, this?
i take a sip.