Analysis of White Noise

you dip
the tip of your toast
in egg yolk
and I watch
as it slides from your lip
and runs down your chin
onto your collar
leaving a sliver of bright yellow
on your white shirt and against
the dreary bleached sky
that blends with the snow,
stretching for miles and miles,
as we sit in our skimmed milk,
decaffeinated morning,
silence bouncing off
the whiteness of kitchen walls,
so smothering and shattering,
I wish we'd drop
a cup, a plate, a fork, a damn knife,
sending it clattering to the floor,
then,  perhaps,  one of us
would finally get to say
some kind of I'm sorry.