The Table

There is a wooden table topped with granite black as night that occupies my thoughts preversely when in sight. It's hand crafted curves bend and wane like the sea, almost dancing, transmuting, engulfing me. And in the stillness of the night, it perplexes my eyes; the light bouncing off the granitetop like a million fireflies. Or maybe they are termites feasting fatly on the kill. spoiling my wooden table while they greedily take their fill. The table's shape contorts alarmingly in the black of darkness' fall. The table wanes consumed by water and I heed it's neptune call. In a wave, it crashes down but I dare not look away. Like a waxing tide it pulls me closer, closer as I lay.