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Two Plates

It’s three months later

and I still serve you dinner;

two perfect plates

on the bench before me

shout to me unavoidably

I’ve not yet learned to count

to one.

Two perfect serves

of unconditional care

and bottomless yearning

that still haven’t learned the meaning

of unredeemable, impossible, over,

and the other plethora

of finite words you serve me

every time I reach

for the salt

of forgiveness

or the irreplicable sweetness

of our innocence…

Two perfect serves

from the deep freeze in my mind

suspended in time and delivered now

to prove somehow

in someone’s deepest reverie

untouched by what you call

reality

we still exist.

I scoop the contents back

into a Tupperware container

to save for later, provisions for another

unwanted tomorrow

where I swallow the leftovers

of our half uneaten dreams

just to stay one breath above

despair

feeding from the sustenance

of a hopeful innocence

a radical forgiveness

that only I know how

to prepare.

Fit as you are able,

you may never join me at this table,

but two plates as a witness

the offer is always there.


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