Table for Two
We used to eat connection.
Shared plates, shared cravings,
a booth against the world.
The diner wasn’t just food—
it was the place where silence got filled
with ketchup bottles,
and laughter echoed off cheap tile.
Now, I sit beside him
watching him not order,
and it breaks me in a way I can't explain—
because he's doing it for me.
He’s already given up more than breadsticks.
And yet—
when his eyes light up at a rare pizza night,
when grease touches his fingers and he doesn’t flinch,
I feel joy like an old friend I thought had left.
It’s not that I want him to stop smiling.
I just wish I could still be part of
what makes him smile.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Yes, your comments matter. Not only do I read them and visit your blog (if I can find it and if you have one), but comments often inspire future blogs.