Restaurant

“Roasted duck and red wine” would’ve been my
most preferred order if I had gone out tonight;
possibly with a best friend, or with a strange date,
perhaps catching up on lost love, or trying to find
something new, something fresh—a zing in the bland,
a ting amidst the silence, this permeating, growing
silence that envelops us as it lasts, drowning, confining
us to ourselves, confiding its talents to our sounds,
but we persist. I asked for a recipe, she asked for one,
and we cooked, in our own spaces, at our own times,
enjoying the process, the steps, the emanating self,
along with aromas we find our undiscovered realms;
I yearn for a bowl of ramen, hot and smoky,
flavourful yet comfort food, I yearn for what others
used to cook for me, the food that was made with
love for the self, for an art, for a cause—yet, this phase
brings out artists in us, for we all know how to
love our own selves, we just need to do it
Within our own compassionate restaurants.