We only really come alive
in front of deadened roar of others,
canned laughs still rouse us to sardonic smiles,
while tortuous plots free up our sneers.
Looking carefully ahead, not at each other,
each lost in our singular, unshareable thoughts.
We gossip about them in a semblance of emotion
so trite we stop caring long before the sentence ends.
As unadventurous as last night’s dinner
no miracle can reheat.
Not facing or squaring the truth and the gape,
ever silent we cling to our sofa
and the myth of our togetherness.
findingtimetowrite 