Chamomile Nights We Brew

 

Rain traces lullabies

against the windowpane —

soft and steady,

like the rhythm

of your breathing beside me.

You brew the tea

with reverence,

like it’s more than leaves

and water 

like it’s the way

you calm storms

without touching them.

You pass me the mug,

our fingers grazing 

brief, electric.

Your eyes hold mine

for a moment too long,

and not long enough.

Steam fogs the space

between us,

but it can’t hide

the way you’re looking at me —

like I’m something warm

you’ve waited all day

to hold.

You ask

if I want honey.

I don’t even blink.

“I’ve got all the sweet I need,”

I say,

and your smile

wraps around me

like the scent of chamomile

and late-night confessions.

We sip,

slow.

Every breath

feels shared,

like we’re steeping

in something

more than tea.

Outside, the rain

becomes background,

a hush

to all the noise

we’ve left behind.

Inside,

your hand finds mine 

tentative at first,

then certain,

like a promise

with a pulse.

You lean in.

No words.

Just breath.

Just inches.

Then your lips,

finally,

finally 

as soft as the night,

as sure as the rain.

The tea cools

on the table.

We don’t.

And somewhere between

that kiss

and the way you whisper

my name like a secret,

I swear 

you taste like everything

I’ve ever hoped

love could be

in the quiet.

©®Madhumita