The Table

After many years of being beaten by the sun and elements of the unforgiving weather,

The table still stands.

Was once brown, but now pale grey, the seats are wobbly, and the surface scared from use.

But the table still stands.

I first met the table three years ago and since then, I haven't had the will to leave it.

It was there when I told him goodbye, I first met my friend, where I meditate and where I have learned to sob.

The table still stands.

Around the table, the concrete is stained with cherry ice cream, where some had melted from an emotional day,

There is magic at the table where I first learned, that I was hurt for many years.

The table is where I met my first love and danced with him in the moonlight.

But the table still stands.

It is always warm from the sun, there is never shade.

There is no shelter from the rain, but it has its own protection.

The top is made from granite rocks and the rest is enclosed in concrete.

Nobody sits at the table but me and for some reason, I feel protective of it.

The table still stands.

As my three-year sentence starts to end, I sit one last time.

Its warm concrete reminds me that I am safe, and the red stains remind me to smile.

The old saltwater stains remind me that its ok to hurt,

And the old scared surface reminds me that, like the table,

I too still stand