Why do things we can’t eat still leave a taste for us?
After a meal, I keep tasting as the fork in my mouth leads to forking with you
The sweetness of marinating on the little things, the words once spoken
Kneading ourselves, hoping to grow into more

My insecurities gave you a sour look on your face,
Like you would spit me out, if you could, and try a different recipe
Lying awake I would chew on my thoughts, masticating until they resembled fears
Reasons to leave, not many to stay, indigestible truths we weren't able to swallow

Curdled plans that won’t come together,
Requests turned resentments,
Reheated arguments and palatable remorse
Finishing my plate but never fully satiated

Feelings and taste become scrambled together
I’m bitter about the lost time, your chair always empty
I’m reduced to a shell of myself, making meals for one but wishing to yield more
It all leaves a bad aftertaste as the tongue recoils and begs for a chaser

Amanda Powell
May 21st, 2020