The Table Next to Mine

At a corner table in the morning haze, Steam rose from cups in softened glaze. A couple sat — greyed by time’s hand, But something cracked beneath the bland. He flipped the menu like a sacred test, Each word a blur on a burdened chest. But hunger wasn’t what he fought — It was battles that the world forgot. A waiter came, displaced his bottle, A tiny act — yet struck full throttle. His jaw clenched tight, a silent spark, A flash of storm beneath the stark. Her silence was soft, like waiting rain, She watched him fidget, hide the pain. No sighs were shared, no fingers touched, Just echoes of a bond, once clutched. Where were the children? Grown and gone? Or had the world just moved along? Perhaps a son who never calls, Or photos hung in distant halls. The food arrived — just dal and rice, No garnish dressed, no extra spice. They ate like clockwork, slow and neat, As if the day could still repeat. I watched, unknown, a fleeting guest, At someone else's lifelong test. And left with thoughts I couldn’t shake — Of love, of time, of hearts that break. -Saankhya Tare