How is it,
you ask

and when we open our mouths,
instead you devour the words,

waving utensils,
knitting your eyebrows
like the crochet tablecloth.

Dinnertime conversations revolve
around loud voices
as we wipe our lips with
napkins –

tinged with
regret and bitterness

and sip from our glasses
filled to the brim with
liquid lava,
warmly trickling down our throats –

choking on sobs.

We eat off the plates that
contain nothing but
crumbs –

leftovers of our dreams,

and excuse ourselves while
shoulders slump
and the last bite of remorse

melts away
and when

the words have made the air
heavy.