Chamomile Nights

Rain taps the window

like it knows

what we’re not saying —

gentle, steady,

uninvited,

but welcome.

You steep the tea

like it’s a ritual,

each movement

slow and certain,

the way you touch things

when you mean it.

Steam rises

between us,

curling in the hush

of lamplight and distance.

You offer me the mug,

your fingers brushing mine

just long enough

to linger.

The warmth?

Unreal.

Not just the cup,

but you 

cross-legged on the couch,

draped in that sweater

that still smells like sleep.

You ask

if I want honey.

I don’t answer 

just smile,

because sweetness

is already here,

watching me

over the rim of your cup.

We sip.

The tea blooms slow,

soft florals unfolding

on the tongue,

and still 

you say nothing.

Neither do I.

But the silence

feels full.

Outside,

the rain deepens 

a velvet percussion

against the glass.

Inside,

your knee brushes mine

like an echo,

like maybe

we’ve been here before

in another life,

and still chose

this moment.

We breathe.

We steep.

We stay.

And somewhere between

your hand resting on my thigh

and the sound of the kettle

clicking off in the dark,

I swear 

you taste like everything

I never knew

I needed

to feel safe.

©®Madhumita