The patina of age
lies heavily on your
silverware. It dully
gleams, lying on fine bone
china scattered between
us: another falsehood.

I stack the moon-like plates,
cratered by time’s passage.
The flickering firelight
accentuates the flaws
of plate and face alike.
Flames lick at seasoned wood.

We sit by the fire and
you offer me coffee.
The black, bitter liquid
scalds me into silence.
A pine log turns to ash:
something else has burnt out.

Staying together is
hard work; we know that well.
The steaming coffee will
keep us awake, as we
fill our chasm with music
that sings of love gone right.

Awash in the sounds of
the music and the night,
I absent-mindedly
polish a silver spoon.
This hour may yet turn out
fine, if we are careful.

This is a reprint of work originally published in Angelic Dynamo.

Ian Chung

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