small pink roses swarm over delicate china
blooming in painted clusters
spreading onto lips
as they lift the teacups to drink
sunshine shifts through chintz curtains
catching the lace trims of tablecloths;
inconsequential chatter murmurs at the edges
as the clock chimes a civilised hour
their eyes meet over the rims but
caught between the shortbread
and the scones, flavoured with etiquette,
their voices melt into vapour
she lifts the teapot lid
and quietly stirs six words into
the hot aromatic liquid
“I don’t love you any more”
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