The dining table, the quiet ritual
Elusive words dripping down to your chin
Lips smeared in grease,
Nebulous sighs, saliva in chardonnay
Dark abyss, your dilated pupil
Tar like affection rolling on your tongue
Loose locks gently lulling to rhythm
Thrumming fingers, soup long forgotten.
"It's time" you say,
Leaving behind yet another night,
Smell of cigarettes static in the air.
