heavy

I come beladen: books,
bags, purses,
a bed, a couch,
square plates, those fancy wine glasses you always like,
my two favorite coffee mugs
my polaroid camera and
one red Underwoood typewriter.
Tracking guilt onto your welcome doormat, I leave my things on your foyer.
You, instead,
indeed, without question,
make cups of African Rooibos tea, heavy on the honey, light on the judgement,
drink with me.
Silently, intuitively,
you know,
knew, always that I'd be back this way.
Suddenly, all at once.