at least i come home to you (and tea)

you, bundled in blankets.
i know you’re worn out
from the affliction that is
surviving below the
poverty line;

below that line are the
things that keep us sane:
blooming flowers, thrift finds,
deafening speakers and mosh pits.

even when i’m overdrawn,
you make me chamomile and
tell me we’ll be okay,
despite the hormone imbalances
and watchful eyes.

i sip on that warmth like nectar.

some nights you come home
more defeated than others;
your pain tortures me, but
i boil the water on the stove
and make a promise to us both:
this life is like the rhubarb i brew,
tart but delectable
on the palette, we must taste
and savor the warmth
we make for ourselves.