May closes with a soft slap of the wrist,
reminding me that I am silly for thinking this is forever.
May finds a way to quietly go away - but...
may I stay?
Here. Forever.
Transfixed by the ripple of the tea
with every whirl and twirl of my spoon.
Fresh, fine spearmint.
Nothing but Billie Holiday -
and the dwindling of May.
In warm comfort -
I disregard tomorrow\'s dismay.
And when they ask my age, I reply: \"last-teen.\"
Fresh, fine youth.
But with a fading crackle the record stops.
In time, the mug empties.
What a shame.
I just want this feeling to be...
lasting. lasting. last-teen.