Bitter Tea and No Roses

Dare I couch myself
in a sheesham coffin, 
lie stone heavy with my spine
hard upon ancient bare boards,
scarcely breathe a sigh.
While above me, you sip
Jasmine pearls, wax large
on the days of knights who
fought for justice and lived on 
edges of a full round table.
You lick your fingertips
dripping of honeyed apricots,
contemplate quantum robins 
falling like hailstones in their
miscalculations.  Or count
fish in your dreams and not sheep,
savouring the memory of sharp tugs
upon long tailed damsels in distress.
I would timid knock, rat-a-tat-tat
morse code to tell you that 
I, small peanut prisoner, 
am curled upon unfurled felt,
of the chill in my bones, 
lament my lack of bitter tea 
and thornless apple roses.