Colanders

We both don't say what we mean sometimes,
you ask me if I'm upset when you mean
that if I were cooking, I would be
serving you eggshells instead of omelettes
and from what and where did that come from, 
and I say nothing when I mean that
I've assumed that you were criticizing my cooking.

But later, we laugh over a mixed-up dessert
that somehow came out alright,
that we share the leftover steam in our hearts,
and the black baked-on defenses,
and even the dirty dishes. 

but that is because we know
the bowls of our woes have holes.