Every evening
We would pour a glass of wine
And talk about our day
I would put my feet on your lap
Which would make you grumble
But sometimes you would rub them for me, anyway.
At some point
We would make something to eat
I would chop onions, mushrooms, sip on wine
And stop to fold my arms around your waist
Breathe in us, our oxygen, my life
Dinner would be spicy, bedtime spicier
We might watch something funny on TV
Tidy away toys, or I would have a bath
And you would sit there with me, just being.
What now, love?
A distance and a dark, unspoken fear
The wine tastes sour
And my feet remain tucked under me
Slowly going numb.
I never want to cook
So we don’t eat, or we order in
I wish that I could order in the past
I know exactly what I’d have
And when it arrived, I’d devour it all, ravenous
I’d binge, throw up, and cry.