Walking toward the table
that was made to seat two,
I recall all
the fine dishes and wines
your contemptuous tongue
has grazed for so,
so long.
And as if they
werent already
delightful enough,
the scrumptious pastries that come after.
Sweets whose names,
one actually bothers to remember.
Your face greets me with
much appetite,
that which I have lost somewhere
in the gaps between stove
and table.
I
walk faster,
and I
refuse to look down
and see
if this lone soup I hold
is by far
becoming any less thick. |
Submission Name: Bitterbud
