eating a bowl of bland moments
for dinner, with silence settled
between our words,
for, I find the taste of home
in hands that can make
anything worth satiating
even with the mess of it all.
is the ingredient of love,
the absence of which
turns our sturdy home soggy,
and balls up in the back of my throat
like an extra helping of salted stillness,
so tart that it's impossible to swallow.
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