Sunday morning free-flowing poetry she used to make mefeel like the ends of aloaf of bread–lonely and untouched, a nuisanceamong false nutrition.it took years for me torecognize that I was stuffed French Toast–qualitybreakfast–a delicacy acrossthe world over. to her, I would never bemore, so I left. she would always see the ends of a loaf ofbread–ever-present, firstand last in line, dependable, yet too tough to swallow.I am a four-course meal,never-ending hors d’oeuvres,and endless recipes offood for the soul. too bad she’ll never befull from me.
No comments yet. Log in to reply on the Fediverse. Comments will appear here.