The Tannins That Bind

There's something wrong with it...

Not something one can put their finger on but rather something that can only be detected with the tip of the tongue, something that is only discernible to the experienced few or those of a certain way of thinking; there is a sense of intimate and rather depressing failure about it... A feeling of deflation that follows.

No matter the efforts to salvage it, the misdeed cannot be undone, the bell not unrung. Whether made accidentally, or by design, the outcome is always the same, cloying and unfulfilling feeling of shame. Fluid as its origin form yet unlike its beginnings, it lingers, it desperately clutches its frigid nature as a child their toy.

Eventually, as all things do, it must fall but its presence is still felt; although gone, drying damage dealt, its final revenge, the moisture stolen, inspiring a second sip. Yet there's still something wrong with it... And the tongue is closing in.

Hints aplenty left, twine and time to link them. There is no difference in viscosity, the room remains the same temperature, the experience is nearly the same... So why does it insist on such a cold reception, why the change in perception, why attack that which is already ashamed?

I shouldn't have let my Tea go cold.