naked breakfast

naked breakfast, I'm slumped
in the hardwood chair un-sunnyside up.
used to laugh when you made fun
of the frosted flakes I always ate,
now I throw the spoon across
the room when I see my frown
in focus along the silver curve.

fuck. I hate when I miss something
I thought I saw, like a drop of milk
caressing the bottom of your chin,
it's very cute, but very not there,
it brings a tear down my cinnamon
cheek. I don't like salt in my ketchup
so I try keep them separate, and
lick them off my skin plate.

my saliva sits sticky there for a
few seconds, I go to get a cup
of juicy juice. one hundred percent
of the time I think I can hear the
vibration of my blackberry, or
"the sweetest thing" ringing
in my head, always high in hope,
but sure and sober in dissappointment.

but I know it won't be long
until you're beside me at this
empty table, eating these seedless
sweet grapes with me, garden fresh
and willing, I can get you and please
our past-like palates before lunch.