She pushes me away with disgust
like a diner who finds a hair in her meal.
I am the plate.
Filled with warm delights,
still steaming, still trying to be wanted.
Untouched and getting colder.
Never to be eaten.
Destined for the bin,
(that graveyard of good meals)
already crowded
with other hearts
nobody finished.








Powerfully penned, Peter. Excellent write with lots of layers my friends. Nicely done. Appreciate you.
Damian