ECHOES UNDER TABLE

 

Echoes Under the Table

Our hands collided beneath the table,

a clandestine dance of fingertips,

each touch a whispered promise

in the dim, smoky air.

The band's melody faded to a distant hum,

swallowed by the roar of my own heartbeat,

a relentless drumbeat of doubt:

You're too late, you're too late.  

But you loved me still,

your eyes fractured like a mirror

dropped on concrete,

each shard reflecting a piece

of your hidden pain.

Anyone could see it—

the way your gaze clung to me,

a lifeline in the storm.  

Our love was a mixtape of minor keys,

each song a fresh bruise,

each lyric a specter haunting

the spaces between us.

Heartache's harvest yields only bitter fruit,

the fields eventually scorched and barren

under the relentless sun of our mistakes.

Now, I yearn for a haven,

a featherbed of forgiveness

where I can collapse, weary from this war of hearts.  

So I loved you still,

my heart a fisherman's reel spinning wildly,

line tangled in the riptide of our shared history.

Anyone could see it—

the way I leaned into the ache,

hoping it would steady me.  

Now you speak of responsibility,

of futures you might have to retract,

treating me like a spun-sugar sculpture,

one wrong move and I’ll dissolve

into sweet, sticky shards.

Do you really think I’m that fragile?

Baby, I hate that you see me like that.  

Will you love me still?

Will your love be the anchor

that stills my spinning heart,

or will I be left to unravel,

thread by thread,

on the jagged rocks of what might have been?

Anyone could see it—

the question hanging in the air,

a fragile note, waiting to be heard.