By Zoya Mir
We gather under ancient ceilings,
wood groaning like old men
burdened by stories,
and candlelight flickers
a dance, restless,
casting shadows
that gnaws at the walls.
Platters arrive—
mountains of flesh,
fruits glistening like stolen jewels,
and steam curls up,
whispering secrets
in a language older than fire.
Forks clash,
metal shrieking
in a cruel harmony.
The first bite, crisp as conquest,
the second—sweet surrender,
tongues blistered in
the rush, the glut.
Laughter rips through the room,
an untamed beast,
tumbling over the din of throats
and gulped wine,
dark as ink,
staining teeth,
smiles turned feral.
Spoons drop with a clatter,
and the silence after rings
like bells in mourning.
Sated eyes glaze,
fingers limp,
trails of honey
forgotten on the skin.
Outside, the night
roars its indifference—
a howl of wind,
branches rattling
their brittle applause.
Inside, we drift,
half-lidded,
swallowed by the feast’s spell,
where echoes rest
like crumbs
in the dark.