Irish Tea

He brought tea to bed
because it’s what his mother had taught him
to do
as a child,
on cold winter nights when the wind
was howling
and rain beat against his windows,
old as his homeland itself,
she would bring him tea,
and he brought it to me
20 years later
in a flat far newer
than that old, worn down house
he took me to
that weekend in April,
when he pretended to still be a Catholic
and crossed himself at Mass
to make his father proud.

He lay tangled in white cotton sheets,
skin grasping on
to a slight tan
from a week of more sun
than his body had seen
all year.
I licked my lips
instinctively
as I watched his fingers
graze the dip in his waist
and squeeze his hip;
I wished my teeth could dig
into his soft flesh
and nibble just a bit
as I kissed further down below
his sheet
that was covering
my favourite spot
on the inner part of his thigh.

His lilt was gentle music
as he whispered against
the skin of my neck,
his full weight on top of me
anchoring me,
freeing me,
as the rain beat against the windows
and soaked into the earth below.
His skin always smelled
like the sea,
even when he was far away
from home.

He told of his plan
to take me to Killarney
and show me where
his mother had come from
when she was just a girl,
when her mother brought her tea,
on cold winter nights
when the wind was howling
and the rain beat against the windows
of her father’s house.

I’m still waiting.

Original Work: KEH 30/11/16

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