When the starless skies labor beneath a gravid moon, it’s so easy to imagine your face and the way you looked at me as the door swung shut behind you. Most of the time, there is a veil between me and my memories of you. In the brightness of the day, I can walk down these streets and not think of the souls you crushed and how you sucked the marrow from us and picked your teeth clean with the fractured bones.that once held our fragile frames together.
It didn’t matter that you left us, each one of us, sleepless and lying on beds we once shared with you. Heated whispers and touches swirling around us like sweet incense. We believed each promise, each lie, because your blue eyes, so absent of guile, pleaded with us to believe. To trust.
When you see another tasty morsel walking by, the staccato sound of her steps echoing against the pallid brick and mortar of the old buildings, I wonder if your eyes begin to glisten in breathless anticipation. And it doesn’t really matter if she is a long-legged blond who sees right past you or a disillusioned artist who weeps her pictures out on stretched canvas.
No, it really doesn’t matter, because after all, a meal’s a meal, right?