The Table

At first,
you light the candles early.
You smooth the tablecloth
like an apology.
You arrange the plates
like promises—
white, delicate, waiting
to be broken.

You set a place
as if they’ll come
this time.
As if the weight of your longing
might be enough
to pull them through the door.

You make too much.
You rehearse your joy.
You think,
this is the time they’ll see me.
This is the moment they’ll stay.

But the seat stays empty.
And the food goes cold.
And your voice learns
how to fill the silence
without sounding lonely.

Still,
you try again.
You set the table
with quieter hope.
You half-fold the napkin.
You only light one candle.

But the ache remains—
a hollow shaped like them
in every room you enter.

And so,
you stop setting a place
at your table
for someone
who keeps forgetting
to RSVP.

Not out of anger.
But exhaustion.
Not because it stopped mattering—
but because you did.

You eat in silence.
And try to call it peace.

But some nights,
the ache pulls up a chair anyway.
And you let it.
Because even disappointment
is something
to sit with.

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