Slices
When the next woman sits beside me
and, between sips, asks if I’m romantic,
I’ll say:
“Am I? No. I was!”
I won’t say it out of bitterness.
Bitterness is a right I barely deserve
(though I do taste of it).
No, it’s just that what I had, I gave.
Gave without measure, without caution,
without a backup plan.
Love, I thought,
was meant to be handed over whole
like fresh bread from the oven:
you share it with whoever’s hungry,
and you eat too, and you sin in gluttony,
only to realize,
on the third day without food,
that you’re starving too.
To this new one, to this whoever she may be, nothing remains.
Not even a crust left on the plate.
Poor thing — she arrived after the feast,
when the floor was already being swept
of what was left of the two of us.
Poor thing, mind you.
No one told me love was meant to be rationed.
A slice today, another tomorrow,
save some here, a bit there,
in case winter came early.
But if you decide to stay, poor thing, you shall serve me to philosophy.
Tell me: why, to her,
I gave everything
and still
she was starving?