Dinner Table conversation

After a day full of work we meet at the dinner table,

There are no escape routes, no more excuses,

owing to the vows of having dinner together every night.

New lovers tend to make stupid rules.

We have a plate full of questions to start with,

A glass filled with the unwillingness to talk

And a jar amid the table filled

with love. But both don’t want to reach out to it.

Because effort has vanished like the

table cloth we don’t use anymore.

The spoons and plates seem to be having a conversation louder than ours. We’re a recipe for

disaster. Both have finished eating their share

of silence, but neither has left the table yet.

You break the silence, “this shall too pass,

things will be fine.” My anger presents passive aggression, like a steaming sizzler. The heat causes a crack in the Jar. I chew chillies down my throat, whispering, “nothing will change, you just mean I’ll get used to it, used to not feeling enough loved, used to being called too much, used to feeling like a burden.”

The crack widens, we still don’t extend our palms to hold it together.

We serve cold responses for dessert like an ice cream sprinkled with chilli powder.

The Jar is leaking, we leave the table, turn off the lights and leave the room.

After a day full of work we meet at the dinner table,

There are no escape routes, no more excuses,

owing to the vows of having dinner together every night. New lovers tend to make stupid rules.

I have a plate full of questions to start with,

A glass filled with the longing to talk,

And a jar amid the table overflowing with love. We both have finished eating our share of silence, but neither has left the table yet.

I wait for you to break the silence,

But the figment of my imagination doesn’t talk.

The Jar is overflowing, I wait for you, hold it in between my palms, the water spills on to my lap,

then to the floor and seeps into every nook & corner of the house.

My silence is starving me

-Pencified