Draft in the dining room

It’s a dark house, grey walls and
shadows—corners collect dust
unseen, untouched
the children pale in late afternoon
valleys below blue eyes
dark as unlit halls.
You’d think it was always raining
the way time dripped on, echo
of infinite drops
ringing in the ears of the living.
Dinner is silent, save for
abhorrent thoughts spilled over
three courses, a black river of
I don’t love you anymore
winds through fractured china, thick
rings like dried ink where it rested
around bowls and milk glasses
leaching into the grain of the wood
a permanent animosity stained
into family oak, a memory
gone up in flames.

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