Malnourished Love

I take you out on a date. I make everything
perfect. I’ve got the candles
set on the center of the table.
There’s a vase with white roses contrasting
with a new red tablecloth. We’ve got plates, mine
all black and yours all blue. There’s crystal
wine glasses and we’re sitting
next to the purple lilac bushes. I’ve got everything
perfect, and then I serve us photographs
instead of food. I spoon them out of the casserole
dish, and I plop them onto the plates for us. You look

at these pictures and you look, and I’m sorry,
Darling, but I just wanted to share something
with you; I just wanted someone
else to know, but really, I’m selfish
by forcing these images upon you, and you didn’t want
them and would’ve never wanted them
anyway, I know.
Look at this

romantic meal that I’ve ruined. I ruined it
because that’s what I do. I tried to tell
you beforehand but you had work to do
and the wolves of time were lapping up the hours
and I was lying on the church floor trying to bleed my soul
clean. I should’ve known then that these pictures were not
meant to be shared. But I badly wanted

to try. I wanted you
to know me. Know me the way I know
me. But I guess I should’ve stayed in my den.
I guess the photo album should have remained
wedged under rocks underground. How
could I have known? You wanted me

first.