He lovingly held the cup of tea
And oh how I wished it was me
I longed to be beneath his touch
When he softly turned the book he clutched
Why does he not see me gazing his way
Hoping just for a glance some day
If only he knew how sad I felt
And he had the power my heart to melt
But every day when we pass
He looks through me like I'm made of glass
This stranger who sits quietly
Sipping at his cup of tea
YOU ARE READING
My Poetry Collection
Poetry'And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.' ~ William Shakespeare
