Lace upon the windowsill, Everything is standing still. Teacups lined in perfect rows, Waiting where nobody goes. Sugar melts inside my tea, Time forgets to follow me. Every flower starts to fade, Still they're beautiful displayed. The kettle softly starts to sing, Like it knows most everything... Porcelain, white and blue, Tiny cracks you can't see through. Hold me like a Sunday dream, Nothing's ever what it seems. Stir the tea and count to three, Tell me what you think you see. Every sip's a sweet refrain... Porcelain remembers names. Rose perfume hangs in the air, Someone must have left it there. Empty chair beside the fire, Never moved, yet sitting higher. Silver spoons and satin gloves, Pressed between forgotten loves. The record hums a lullaby, While the daylight waves goodbye. Don't spill the tea... Don't ask why... The roses bloom... Then quietly die. Close your eyes... The clock's too slow... Some things bloom... But never grow. Porcelain, soft and thin, Keeping little secrets in. Every crack reflects the light, Like the stars that hide at night. If the kettle calls your name, Smile as though it's all the same. One more cup before the end... Won't you stay for tea again? The tea is warm... The room is still... The moon climbs up... The windowsill...
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