Facing the Dinner Table

isn’t it hilarious how it is that only tonight both you and i have come to realize for years this dinner table has vastly stood between us and all that is spread upon it may never manage to evade the distance or the partitions blocking me from you. therefore, i clasp the bowls filled with withering leaves colored a dead green missing their shine the shine i once saw subsiding in your eyes the dishes pose to be red with schallots, carrots, tomatoes and chilli or morelike love that often bounces of in conversations between you and me, about other people. the rice has forgotten how to be the white that is supposed to break our hunger fallen into whatever water in the tall goblets are wells waiting for your throat and mine to become rivers, staircases that shall return him to the sky to impregnate the clouds again the fruits long to rot grow maggots and return to the branches or they might be missing the knife that stabs to take them away from the stiffling silence amidst nonsense talk we share. what color has yet to find its way to be a table cloth to make this table look slimmer, to toss away the layers of conversation drowning us like the fat on our bodies isn’t it such a pity how only tonight you and i have come to realize the fact that my hand could no longer offer food to your mouth nor the other way around.