the plates gleam,
white as bone,
polished smooth like they have
never known hunger.

the chairs are full,
backs straight, hands folded,
laughter soft as candlelight.

i press my fingers to the rim of a glass
and pretend my touch does not leave smudges.
pretend i am not starving for something
that will never be offered to me.

the air hums with voices i do not recognize,
language slipping through my fingers
like silk, like water, like something
that was never mine to hold.

they do not notice me.
i am a shadow at the feast,
a hunger that will not be named,
a knife laid beside an untouched plate.

the table is set,
but not for me.