Teapot

Empty moments consume my tired eyes,
Routine becomes broken down into that of distaste.
Wrapped in a warm blanket in my living room,
the soft touch reminds me where my heart is.

I sit here and write in hopes to escape momentarily.
A package arrived today,
The wonders that little brown box held.
Fairy tales skipped out of it, onto a shelf in my kitchen.

A little teapot,
Hand painted,
With stories told, that I know by heart,
Words spilled curiosity on the spout.
Beautiful. Colorful.
A reminder that she is still there.

I smile, yet my eyes remain weary.
Sleep is all I long for,
Yet in twenty nine minutes I shall head to work.
Until the night breaks me from this hell.

I shall return to the warm of this very spot I sit,
To write, to listen, to reminisce.

Such a beautiful porcelain teapot.