Real Life Poetry. It Hurts.



Our Last Supper


I know he is leaving, though he sits here

across from me, in my dimly lit kitchen.

Which, once was ours. He leans

over the cracked pine table top

to sip from the last glass of red wine,

shared. He cannot stay, we know. Then

will he go to a dark, desolate bar?

To wait for someone else, anyone else

to take him home. A black dress, I suppose.

He eats-

the chicken pasta I have prepared,

breaking bread in silence.

My heart eats, dying moments

of our love. Blood shot eyes,

focus on the food. Only thin black hair

stares at me from across the table. The table

that seems to grow larger,

as our plates become bare.

He is leaving,

but we eat.