Feast of Fragments
and the table is not the table,
but the echo of a thousand yesterdays.
This feast of the mind—
mashed potatoes? No,
they are the memories of something
that was never quite real.
Cranberry sauce?
More like the reflection of a reflection.
And yet, we eat. We devour.
What is gratitude but the whisper
of an unspoken thank you
lost between the first bite and the last?
The pie does not exist.
It only does when we look at it—
and even then, only for a moment.
I raise my glass to the chaos of it all.
The burnt edges, the awkward silences,
the laughter that echoes
like something that has always been here,
but never truly arrived.
The pumpkin sits—
not as fruit,
but as a symbol of symbols,
its orange a trick of light
and time.
Is it fall? Is it us?
Are we falling, or rising,
or are we the ones who have already gone?
I give thanks for nothing,
and in nothing, I find everything.
Let the feast begin,
for the food is not the food.
It is the space between the forks
and the moment where our thoughts dissolve,
together.
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