A Seat at the Table

I don’t want the shallow conversation,
The one-sided silent heartbreak that comes
every time the minutes to turn hours and then days.

The petty recourse like half-warm leftovers,
Sitting alone at the table
waiting to be pushed around carelessly by a fork.

I don’t need to eat,
I just want a seat at the table.

I don’t want the whole,
I just want a piece of the process.

The muscle memory,
Eyes closed, breathing out
and waiting for the pregnant pause:

Read, but not responded.