We were born believing that the world centered around us, 

It’s confounding, really, 

when we catch this lie surround us, 

I believed that the pink of my mother’s tea was the only right way to feel warm, 

But the beauty of being wrong, 

Lies in the generosity of truth

And youth is so forgiving,

I could count the number of lies on the fingers on my hands, and not need more, 

And how many more days till the world stops revolving around me?

I’m told, it takes at least three heart aches? 

And at least four falls, before I realize the crunch of the leaves beneath my feet

Is another pleat in the longing of our entwined existence 

Across the ocean a lady in white, 

I think, she makes her tea exactly like my mother 

But each time I ask for another, it tastes a little different, 

Looks a little red, 

I dread, I would need another finger, to account another lie, 

The wind here, so sly, 

I almost felt my mother’s hand on my cheek.