Skim Milk and Cream

It hurts to drive away. And I know it hurts you.
You tell me that, often enough. No comfort, hearing, saying it.
No comfort stating facts.

If it were a relief-
not-so-sweet parting, looked forward to relief
-like all the others, ones, tens, dozens of others,
I'd be sad.
But it would be a relief. And I'd have me, my time.

It's not.

Living on skim milk, crumbs, a prisoner in solitary,
You feed me cream, chunks of cake, coat my palate with richness.
With you.
Stuffing ourselves for hibernation, gaunt again after a few days.
A few hours. Minutes. Seconds.


I am awake, conscious. Wishing I still slept.
Can't sleep anymore, too cold to sleep, too hungry to sleep.
The little match girl sits; her belly growls in the icy rain.
Fantasy in smoke warms her but that only for a match flare.
She has boxes of matches and will use them all, trying to stay warm.
Trying.