What hurt most?

This is just

to say, I think,

you wouldn’t wake me.

I have eaten from my dream

when we could have shared

the plums together;

could have talked

and wrestled the thoughts

that were in between us

and put them

in the icebox

to chill.

Or that ‘just’

that stunned, and which

so casually insinuated.

You were probably cruel.

You know I was

saving nothing,

waiting for breakfast,

for break-up,
or maybe the lie:

‘Forgive me.’

No real apology.

Smearing me.

With malice,

they were delicious,

your adjectives.

Forgiveness,

though so sweet,

is a dish best served late,

and so cold.

And so, so

cold.