When, in my cup of tea, I saw love The tea steams, and it leaves a ring of condensation denoting with transience its firm, sizzling Life on the table. The dark, earthy fragrance wafts high. Electrifying, or so, still alone, it hopes. A battery, an engine Its fuel begs to combust. Begs to reach out and embrace, And excite, And uplift both inertial conveyors of life, vessel and axon alike. The tea itself, however: It is embittered. It is overwhelmed. And with perhaps greater fervor than it wishes to excite, it wishes to be at once excited and swirled and dulled and lightened and written with white ink into the book of life. My tea wants a pour of milk, and so I oblige. Have you ever had the Pleasure & Privilege Of watching that white love enter the crystalline walls of a dark tea? I tilt my hand and pour white ink to life’s volumetric tune. I almost hear the synesthetic hum. Hmmm, the tea sighs. I look on in awe. At first, nothing. Then, a hint of motion. A fractal’d cloudfront climbs the walls with swirls for fingers, pillows for toes. The clouds of clarity Make all of the sense, and none of it either. The smell subtly changes as they now hold molecular hands, in a union opaque to the outside, but so inevitable from within. And now I sip my tea, with an understanding of what grace May be wrought by the lovely fusion of my tea with milk.