A boy, a girl, a room, Filled with nothing but thickened gloom, Down cascades the girl’s many tears, Up rose her words that hurt to hear.

A fist, a bruise, a week, The boy wouldn’t let himself speak, Her words felt like a punch, a hit, Both of them feel like utter shit.

A thought, a hope, a wish, That the room will soon once again dish, Out memories of their smiles on plates, But directed hate weaves in their fates.

It’s a mistake the girl made, In silent anger, the boy wades, The room turns frigid and cold, Tension that will never grow old.