For All of Them

Set a table for one. One chair. One plate. I like it that way.

There will always be thoughts that go back to. Hungry hounds on a very long leash. Who I am now owed to. Small steps. One at a time.We get there eventually.

Save the ink for the page. Save the words for when I can consider acceptance an option. Only then. Or until my plate is clean.

No numbers on these pages. Just shuffle and see what lands ontop. No colors to those face anymore. Just traces done on onion skin. So blurry. No voices to attach. Just songs that still gather in the shadows of those mountains.

So dark.

To every moment these is a pause before that asks us to choose. But it never waits long enough.

And there we sit at our tables. With our broken plates.