Deprivation Dinner

I keep our deprivation dinner a secret. I walk home in the rain. I call my mother. I talk to my raving girl. I smoke five cigarettes. I keep our dinner a secret. I restrain my fingers, I throw my phone against the wall. It is raining. My bed is empty. This is nothing new. I miss what I thought you were. I pretend you are a man. I keep my deprivation a secret. A lullaby sung to the betrayal in Spain. Hush.

I look across the table. You are no longer beautiful to me,
but God your wrists have stayed so skinny.
You know I like that.
Closure is so conventional. Here we are, at our restaurant,
I gag it's so trite.
You tear as I'm talking.
It makes sense, because I am saying things like:
"We can talk about things now, like adults. I don't care anymore, after all."
"When you call, and I don't answer at all,
it's because I can't be not cruel. I have so many mean mean things
to say."
"I was so very unhappy with you."
"Why didn't you leave me when I needed you to?"

"My girl, my girl. I wanted to fix things. I loved you."

You answer to that effect.

LOVING IS A VERB LOVING IS A VERB LOVING IS A VERB YOU'VE GOT SOME NERVE LOVING IS A VERB living without you is made of sweet sweet
sweet
verve.