You eat what I write.
There's a piece
of my poems
with tomato
sauce on your
shirt.

Then you
burp
with satisfaction.
after, you
wipe your face
on a paper napkin,
and talk about it
with your friends
over the
dinner table.

Then you stir your
wine and make
small talk
about my
personal life
as if you were
a close friend of mine,
and I hate you
for it.