This is a repost to get this back on site.
Broken saltines litter the polished wooden table,
piling higher and higher;
as I crush a mountain out of a molehill;
turning nothing into something;
but truly worth nothing after all.
Across the table you sit,
watching the hill grow and grow between us;
dust ravaged words..
impossible to take back,
litter between us that was something;
but worth nothing.
The mantle clock strikes 11 agonizingly slow,
Westminster melodies so far out of place here and now,
Calling out 8…9…10….and finally an end of sorts…
but no words.
The microwave chirps the reminder of hot tea,
hot hours ago,
ignored and unwanted now;
annoyance again and again in the chirp,
pointing to the swollen silence of our chat
... but never did.
I look to find your eyes;
hidden behind clenched fists of frustration,
focused and swiveling down,
to peek at that still growing mountain of saltines.
And in the time it takes to have a great open dialogue,
Words that could be spoken
freeze on the lips;
uttered endlessly in our heads,
...but not shared.
The hour creeps by to midnight,
as a marriage on the edge,
leans ever closer to the black abyss,
where nothing escapes,
and hope is withered and dying.
How well I know these times,
where all human interaction seems pointless,
where all hope seems distant,
where all love seems so far removed from the here and now.
Where an entire lifetime together,
is nothing but broken saltines
mounded on the table.
The mantle clock strikes midnight,
as time runs out on what was,
and two best friends in life,
fail to find the words to save what is.