The apples she rolls,
the carrots she throws—
decadence in motion.
Her ponderousness,
soothing, agonising, soothing again.
How can it be that I love her, but she does not love me?
A rapid smile without a gaze,
not even addressed to anyone.
It’s only us in this moment;
the cue is forgotten.
How can it be that I want her so deeply to feel me?
There is simply no stress.
A world of what could be,
when hungover from sleeping pills,
forever.
Long nails clacking on a plastic screen.
"With card?", she asks.
"Yes, with card please", I unmask.
If she knew about these lines,
almost out the door and regretting my crimes,
I would vanish into myself.