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.
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.