We used to come down to this tea shop,
The Girl and me,
Hanging stories on our tongue like scarves
Unraveling in the wind.

We came down to this tea shop
Once in Winter
When Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” became our song
Without our lips moving
My hands became her throat and
Her throat became my hands and
My lower back suspended effortless in her fingertips
Like tea lights floating in a bath tub
Where we arrived that night and dipped our toes,
Washed our feet like Mary bathing Jesus under the glow of the north star
Poking through the barn slats.

We’d come down to this tea shop
And count the spiders in the ceiling
And the lightbulbs in the table-lamps
And the snowflakes on the windowsill;
And count the shadows in the kettle,
Sip each milky ghost down
The throats that had become our hands and
The hands that had become our throats,

We’d swallow deep as kettle drums
Singing out at Christmas Mass.

I came down to the tea shop this winter
And the windows were dead and boarded;

I crawled in through the delivery door out back.

And up above the register
I wrote our names into the dust,
I pried the scarf from around my neck and
Hung each string from the nails that used to hold our conversation,
I sung out “Hallelujah”
Like a pubescent boy in the gospel choir
Trailing notes that flew out past the streetlights

Unraveling in the wind.

Hanging stories from our tongue,
The Girl and me,
We used to come down to this tea shop.

this hurts pretty bad. Really easy to feel the flow and the way the words turn each other over into the next sentence. "sip each milky ghost down," yes. Portrays wistfulness in a really lovely way. Some really lovely word choice throughout. lovely