There is tea between us. Delicate cups waiting to be filled with the us that left them last time. How would it be possible to save the woman-child of the last time? Too much goes on as every 120 my heart reborn and 35 my skin leaves me anew. There is nothing left but vague impressions ,convulted allusion of wording and watercolored afterimages of (fully grown but still) children ( boy and girl and boy and girl and girl) who shared souls and bodied-thoughts. The fragrance lingers after all are gone and they put their cups away; some fragile whisps linger in delighted repose.