It's a game we play
he offers me food
saucy ribs and a
mountainous heap of
of mashed potatoes
and a morsel of string
beans, he calls it a full
course meal. Dinner.
Meat. Starch. And veggies
but there's more meat
and starch than veggies,
actually. His serving size
is quiet hope and I don't
wish to break the silence.
I stare at the meat on my
plate until he finishes his
and begins picking at mine.
I leave the mountain and the
river of oil drenched beans.
I drink the water, pick the
yellow slice of lemon with the
curve of my spoon and
suppress my tongue.
He eats for him but mainly
for me. We have dinner and we
skip the desert.

we don't use
punctuations
over messages
because we fear that
we'll expose any feelings
that we'll stop any
questions with our periods
raise unwanted questions
with any marks,
we don't use any punctuation
because we're afraid that our
feelings will show through how
many words we use and how we
end our sentences.

I told him he has a beautiful voice
and he just kept on singing,
louder and louder and louder