Beneath the Surface

The kitchen table, slick with faded light,

fingers glide over formica, a canvas of days,

a scratch marks the spot where laughter took flight,

memories linger like a soft, ghostly haze.

Each meal shared, a woven thread in the grain,

spilled secrets and comfort, all wrapped in the sheen,

yet here I stand, in the aftertaste of pain,

haunted by echoes of what might have been.