Dirty dishes The dishes are dirty in the sink. As they always have been. I am waiting for you in anger and passion and love and hate, Madness of ten thousand fights, A betrayal worth ten thousand knives stabbed in my back, right through my heart, I am waiting for you and I can’t sit with myself, Not for one second. So here I find myself scrubbing endless dirty dishes, Dishes that are not even mine, Dishes catching flies and filth and fire and flames. Dishes, shameful and unashamed, with stains that can’t be washed with water or soap or blood or bleach. I am waiting for you. Hours pass by, you come late. As you always have been. There’s ten thousand storms in me, and now I have to fake with a clean smile, A blameless peck for my killer. How do I talk to you now? To you the dishes are clean enough, innocent enough, nothing out of the ordinary. But the dishes want a clean break. If you haven’t loved and lost, you haven’t lived. The dishes are dirty in the sink. Just like you and I.
