Tulips

Tulips, red and yellow, sit on the kitchen table as slices of sunlight stream through the blinds and rest on the petals. Look up to the white light and watch little specks dance in and around the darkness. The blinds need dusting and the windows need wiping, trivial tasks that somehow slip my mind; they are too commonplace for this cultivated life. You'd say the room is bright enough, but you are not here and there is nothing to be heard. The tea I drink and the cookies that sit in ceramics need company, your company. I wish you were here to admire the tulips and the specks that float through this place, because this is endless.