I knew there was something there because we were at each other’s throats.
Now we’re adult appliances dragging words out of each other’s mouths. And nothing comes out.
Maybe just grief.
We have grief and spices on the menu today. How would you like to serve it, please?
The spices will do, thank you. Save the grief for mourning times.
I’ll also have a black hole with a teaspoon of honey, please.
Yes, coming right up. Sugar?
Anything that poisons or asphyxiates, please, yes.
Sure, my colleague will take your order in an instant.
Make it two.
I need to catch my breath. And give yours back. Or take it and hide it from her.
Chaotically yours, TRULY. How blind one can be when they’re hungry.
I crush the end of my fork tenderly.
Thank you for stopping by. I hope you enjoyed your meal!
It devoured me. Can I have an extra portion to take away?
My other self is feeling nauseous and starving to death.
Madam, let me take your order.
I’ll have you and no one else. And if they come near me, I’ll slice them and ask them: how dare they not be him?
I will forever crave. Your menu is of no interest to me.
Entire restaurants and meals and plates and recipes
float in space,
going nowhere, looking for one black hole to escape to.
I told them to hurry. One more spoon of him and I’ll be well.
It was the silent kind and it killed me on the spot.