Be someone’s tortoise.
So when they look at you,
they feel floating calm.



You’re not beautiful,
you say.

I agree.

Not physically.
Not the most, alright.

But if we regard your gaze
that surfaces the morning tea
like a lamina of cream

whose thinness
only the sprinkle of your cardamon utterances
could reckon,

and which tucks the gold whispers
into the cup’s clay beds
warmed in kiln,

I presume
you’re quite the intriguing life form
to be with.