The Dining Dead

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You asked me once
“Do you love me?”
As the jazz singer sang,
Her melancholy voice bellowed past her dark maroon lips

Fake red roses stood unnoticed
at the center of every table
The waitress’s voice was slurred
I couldn’t understand her every other word

Your forced smile reveals your coffee stained teeth
My lips are stained from the glass of blood red wine

An aged woman flirts with the naive waiter near our table
As a young couple tries to keep words from coming out of their mouths

You asked me twice,
“Do you love me?”
I asked you once
“Are we the dining dead?”





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