The day you left,
I couldn’t stop eating:
pasta,
fish,
pork,
olives,
ice cream.
Bite after bite,
I swallowed my sorrow:
let it move my lips
into something
other than a
silent scream.
It sat
heavy in my throat,
refusing to move on,
to be properly digested.
I still don’t know
if this lump is
dinner or
despair.
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