Leftovers by Alexandra Englehart

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.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *