His crème brûlée is starting to grow mold,
Cream and yolk separating
Like he and I on the sidewalk that night,
Slowly but steadfast,
No chance of reconnecting.
Our jambalaya has hardened,
The peppers and onions have soured
And turned to mush.
Condensation drips from the lid like our
Conversations after he decides
I am not what he wants,
quick and to the point, no real flavor left.
This refrigerator is full of boxes, bags, and Tupperware;
Hands I still want to hold and
Voices I still want to hear saying my name.
I know I won’t finish them,
But I can’t throw them away.