the last time i saw you:

i gave you my body under a wet tarp while someone on
the next couch over snored and wheezed.
pump, snore, hiccup, moan, jolt, gasp, slurp, breath, repeat.
i turned our act of love into a song
and did not come.

in the morning you said,
"let me take you for breakfast."

indian summer,
we sat outside on benches
and i watched you dip rye toast into
a swamp of egg and cheese, lick your fingertips
and slurp your black coffee.
you held the mug like a lover,
in two hands,
your lips on the rim,
cooling the contents which trembled at your breath like flesh.
i felt like a voyeur.

after you engulfed yourself in morning compost,
you stood and stretched your arms.

"listen. i have to go. here."
you threw a five dollar bill on the table.
"chivalry's dead anyway, right?" you laughed.

you left me in the restaurant,
with your empty plates and my
puckered pancake, broken and gutted of fruit.
i was three dollars short and praying that no one was watching,
that no one had heard what you said
and watched me do nothing but stare at you dumbly,
take the money and say "thanks."

the waiter took pity on me,
gave me a coffee refill and told me he could spot me.
"the tips are pretty good here."

i filled out an application and left.

i never do tell that part of the story.

11/08/2008

Posted on 11/08/2008
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer