Honey.

The tension drips bitter,

onyx black like the coffee

you gaze into whilst you stir it

with loneliness, regret.

You tread the beaten path

in open air as a passer-by

leaves a lingering scent

of the rose water

which would douse my neck.

You reminisce,

clouded by the aroma

only to find your palms unclasped.

I took another path

when you eyes fixated

not on black & white parchment

but the Ebony & Ivory.

You touched thorns

until scarred, lethargic.

But you tasted the honey

that will return you home.