I have no fork or spoon to eat you with,

Just my heart and my hands

To hold you,

And call you mine

For as long as this meal lasts.

But I’ve starved myself of this food

For so long that my body forgets the

Ritual, the ediquette

And the holy words that come before the first course.

I just like the way you smell;

Like cigarettes and the ashes from the dining table

That burnt along with the home we built so many years ago.

Praying hands won’t teach me how to use mine–

I have lousy ediquette:

Elbows on the table

Talking with food in my mouth,

I wonder what would happen if the knife slips and I cut you

Too deep, so deep

That you can’t be mended?

I’m not good with delicate moments

Or delicate things

You see, champagne glasses shatter in my hands.

Perhaps this game isn’t right for me

So for your sake,

I’ll lay a napkin in my lap

To catch the crumbs

That fall when you crumble.

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