A table could be a slab
of termite-kissed wood,
anchored by four brown cylinders
- four coffee-stained legs.
Or it could be
this wall between our itching souls
this glistening podium where we set our teacups
and watch our hearts flop,
where we eat malice for breakfast
and sip hisses for dinner.
Or it could be
this bridge between our wavy emotions
this timbered needle desperate to pierce the vermilion haze of hatred floating above our heads,
around our hearts.
It could be
the seal of broken vows
or the reel of love, seeking a steadier core,
a smoother slab.
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