A Void [of Plums]

A note lay on our dining room table. “The plums in the icebox — forgive me.”

The light was dim through rain clouds and thick kitchen air. I asked myself how

to read it. Forgive me. Was this harried scrawl hitched to some lingering regret? The icebox mocked

my wide eyes. Void of breakfast plums. So cold, and so sweet. My sigh of longing.

-

The chair told me to sit. Cushion dust blurred my sight of the table and I read the note. I sneezed,

then read it again. The closest thing to tasting them, black words on fading page.

I thought of marriage. An empty, mediocre compromise. Suppose love should have fixed it.

Forgive me. I rested my chin on the linoleum and blinked at the phrase.

-

Rain light darkened more and I knew the day had passed me by. I ate an apple

from the fruit bowl. Visions of him danced in my periphery, furtive plum burglar.

I stared at those two words, the letters mismatching the remaining words. I studied the strokes of his pen. A scribble.

A dash. Then forgive me. He had been deliberate.

-

I blocked me out, thumbed it like an accusation.

Eyed the remainder.

*   *   *

Thank you for reading! This is part of a series of poetic emulations, where I take a poem I love and either write an answer, a continuation, or something new inspired by it.