Dinner Repeats

Seven nights of the same, cold spaghetti stuck,

a container half-empty, my tastes out of luck.

Each bite is a memory, a dance on repeat,

as if comfort has claimed me, my taste buds to cheat.

Noodles cling to sauce like regrets to the heart,

I stir with a fork, longing for something apart.

The fridge hums a lullaby, dull and precise,

reminding me daily, this meal isn’t nice.

Yet still, here I am, trapped in this cycle,

a routine so mundane, yet familiar like a cycle.

What’s left to desire when dinners are few?

I dream of new flavors, yet here I sit, too.