A poem

Woke up with this in my head – I don’t usually write poetry, but here goes:

Chicken Breast

I gave my order to the guy behind the deli counter, and saw him

The man who spurned me.

The man I mooned over, cried over, would have lived and died over.

He could’ve had my heart on a dish.

His eyes were still green.

His dark hair still curled just so.

His body straighter and stronger than even I remembered it.

We exchanged pleasantries.

I turned back  and my order was wrapped and ready.

I unwrapped it in the privacy of my kitchen.

To my surprise it had not been cut  –

Thinly sliced so I could arrange it on a platter.

But was somehow,




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