Leftovers

First piece of writing I've ever published.

Make the most of this last weekend
A toast to what was, and as we keep telling ourselves,
To what will be, but we both know these fluted glasses are plastic
And the champagne burns like cheap spirit as I force it down,
no longer the same bargain it was in high school
I wonder how you stomach it so easily

Leftover feelings thick like leftover gravy
Thanksgiving stuffing for an empty heart
Celebrate gluttony on this hollow holiday
Somehow never enough to fill this failing organ
Each pump propelling the cracks ever closer to the surface
A testament to modern engineering it has held this long

It’s not the first time we’ve walked these fields
No flowers now, just a thin film of winter wheat
But my, have the roots spread deep beneath us
Gone too are the groves. Leafless, only two trees remain
Gaunt silhouettes cast by an ugly mess of limbs and stumps
The feelings born of this place now dormant as well

Looking out at the river, we sit just far enough away
The spring air was warm and full of beginnings our first time here
Fitting, isn’t it, that today its bite is sharp
Whipping up whitecaps, while the surface remains calm as a mirror
The tumult before us a reflection of the unspoken words between us
In a matter of days ice will suffocate not just the river we face

Sunday arrives; not a day if rest, but a day to put to rest
As I pack my things this time through
I leave my corner room even emptier than before
Thirty months of memories torn down faster than I thought possible
Dumped into a cardboard box, sealed, and buried with no eulogy
To be forgotten until age has safely yellowed all that’s inside