You were the guest
at my table
picking on the corners
of the table cloth,
fingers nervously
folding and unfolding
mutilated pride.
You watched the candle
flicker, as restless
as your hands—
trembling, casting
shadows visible only
to those who sat
on the edges of the paroxysm
that quivered and coughed,
cleared its throat
as if ready to explode
but was caught instead
on minute fish bones—
too sharp for
a smooth conversation.
© Neetu Malik
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