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.