A Meet-up & Letters

Conversations are snatched from you.
They travel all the way across the table.
Never returning.
Away from you.

It starts very simply.
Someone else asks a question.
Away from you.
Never returning.

And it is never remembered
That there is a pending conversation.
That at one corner of the table
A boy patiently awaits his turn.
Knowing full well it will never come.

Attempt after attempt after attempt.
Perhaps, that is why I prefer letters.