Our Years Poem by RIC BASTASA

the years make us familiar
it is the contempt that brings us closer
to the extent of disrespect

as i am eating my meal
you cut your fingernail
on the table
but i do not mind
precisely my thoughts are flying
like birds away
from you
the tunnel of silence without light
visible at the end

you must wonder
why my words are getting nil
and i have too
become choosy on what to say

i still have respect
for myself and will not be swayed
at telling you
the truth of how those years have
expunged
what bad taste is there
for lips which have nothing to offer
for bodies that are warm
yet devoid of love
and meaning.