.

Background: a shitty fucking poem that I fucking hate. No fucking clue why I'm putting it up, other than it's the only thing I've written in a while.

Rekindled

I leave the table
having him nor me said
anything
except maybe pass
the rice, please,
thanks.

and the rest of the night:
the dull droning of
the clock, the television, my sighs
and watching his eyes
tirelessly:
a sparkle, a glint, anything, goddammit—
but nothing.

Later I fall asleep on the couch
all sprawled out,
a wreck.

But the next morning, I wake up
sunlight on my face
pillow under my head
blanket over my body
my book closed, on the ground, page marked—

things not there the night before.