but i love the taste of stale chips.

always reaching out for the crisp chip,

isn't that the way of our hunger?

to crave what crackles between the teeth

to savor the echoes of it's snapping retreat.

but i see how the crunch gives way to quiet

leaving none but the stale behind.

like footprints on an aging wood

like waves retreating from the shore

like echoes of laughter in abandoned rooms

it softens, it dulls, it lingers.

it bends instead of breaking, it sighs instead of snapping.

yet why do i crave what has already faded?

why do i savor what no longer sings?

perhaps i savor what has softened

for i've seen how sharpness never stays

perhaps i flinch at the the crunch, 

for it sounds too much like unheard screams

for it reminds me of my own voice

that shrieked, that screamed, that screeched.

for i remember the crisp, 

the crisp that never knew how to wait

the crisp that crumbled when met with neglect

the crisp that turned to dust between my fingers

so i look on at the stale chip,

the stale does not shatter between my teeth

the stale does not remind me of what was lost-

but only of what remains.

the stale knows what the crisp didn't,

to endure, to wait, to exist.

but maybe,

maybe, im simply lying to myself,

making metaphors out of mediocrity

calling the quiet a choice to escape any pity

wrapping up nostalgia disguised as defiance 

chewing on resignation and calling it preference 

or maybe,

maybe it's my stubborn urge to prove-

to prove, that something remains,

that event the faded has some beauty,

that even the dulled is not discarded 

that even what lingers is not always waste-

but something worth keeping, worth knowing 

worth pressing against my tongue, again and again.

and maybe i find solace in the numbing comfort

of knowing that even when the world forgets,

even when the crisp vanishes into the dull,

even when it's clamor calls me back,

i'll still love the taste of stale chips.