A Moonlit Dinner for Two

Art by Yan Krukov
Written by Gabriella Troy


I meet you for dinner once a month,
a cycle meant to strengthen the bonds of womanhood
between us, shared hugs and laughter and support
but we fall, together.

We share silence stretched between stunted words,
lies and pretty nothings, bony fingers fisted around a fork,
a stab through the plate to the heart,
pushing away.

Green beans take circles around our plates, coffee dark
as our eyes burns the path to our empty stomachs,
but the bitterness is sweeter than our breaths,
whispering incomprehensibly.

I watch you grow into someone I do not
know, how I look is a mystery
in a house void of mirrors, in a mind void of
anything good.

What was once between us is invisible
under the dimness of the moon, each cycle
we tried too hard but not enough, and all this time we grew
apart.