the bistro grows further away with every date
the one at the end of the island where we go
to visit our phantom habit for public hunger

your eyes say its not fair to look with my pit
but the opened fast maneuvers greed into survival
so we chew but cannot swallow what we see

is this then what judgment is my lips will ask
this polyester napkin and those contactless faces
our eyes held hands fed body before what future

you drive us home in the twisting dark as i nod off
the headlights reflected in dogs eyes like coins
as the unfed guard the way by broken asphalt

we arrive and flavor seems to have returned
we bite a grey macaron speckled with black sesame
seeds soft as the crack at the back of a cradled head

//