A Pickle Is Not Lunch

You arrived late again,

holding nothing but a paper bag

with a single pickle inside.

You called it lunch,

but I knew it was a prophecy.

We sat on the floor because

your chairs were busy

holding coats you never wear.

Your home held shoes

that never walk anywhere.

The silence between us

was buttered thick,

like toast I’d happily choke on

just to prove a point.

You spoke about the moon

as if you’d invented it,

and I nodded

because maybe you had.

Your fingertips found my wrist

not to feel my pulse,

but to check the time

and announce that it was already too late.

When you left,

I realized the pickle was mine now.

I bit into it,

expecting bitterness,

but it tasted like nothing

exactly like us.