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Weekly Contest #287
Somehow, making tea had weaved into me, the roots of my soul. A vascular mesh that now throbs with a nectar so saccharine it smokes out of my pores like a bitter incense. Once I was led, from the time of falling flowers, into an unending labyrinth—clutching a clammy hand as its cold seeped into me, the sun blinding my eyes, and my heart, still wondering who had led me—where only the faint coiling of steam remained, soft against my face, like a mother of the trees promising me home. It felt as if, with nothing left to give, my existence defau...
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