The Chair
I remember a long time ago when I had a warm body laying next to me at night, a face to gaze at across the table, a hand to hold on a leisure stroll.
Those things have faded with time and age, and death or disease. The bed still carries a valley between its peaks, where someone used to sleep. My hands grow cold on walks alone.
But more than all of that, I miss having a dinner companion. All I have to keep me company is the simple chair that sits across from me. There is only one plate, one fork, one glass, and no voices. I don't talk to my food, I don't talk to my table, and I don't talk to myself. Sometimes, I play music, hoping to find voices in there and listen, rapt at my lyrical company, but it does not sway me. I've tried talk radio, but my dinner companion isn't sparkling conversation when it's a disc jockey.
The only company I have is the lonely chair, staring at me, begging for the body that filled it once, just as I am. Dinner is so lonely.
Those things have faded with time and age, and death or disease. The bed still carries a valley between its peaks, where someone used to sleep. My hands grow cold on walks alone.
But more than all of that, I miss having a dinner companion. All I have to keep me company is the simple chair that sits across from me. There is only one plate, one fork, one glass, and no voices. I don't talk to my food, I don't talk to my table, and I don't talk to myself. Sometimes, I play music, hoping to find voices in there and listen, rapt at my lyrical company, but it does not sway me. I've tried talk radio, but my dinner companion isn't sparkling conversation when it's a disc jockey.
The only company I have is the lonely chair, staring at me, begging for the body that filled it once, just as I am. Dinner is so lonely.