I prefer romantic comedies, but with you I watched
soccer, sitcoms and scary movies.
Sucking down insipid soda at the Strand
our hands never touched
in that colossal carton of Tuesday’s free popcorn.
I hated those throat-clinging kernels,
yet it was for that initial salt-searing crunch
that my fingers found clump after clump
while yours tapped the armrest
oblivious of my desire that they cup my skull
and clip back my curls
so that I could try to decipher your heart’s thump.  
Then maybe our storm-strewn telephone lines
would cross.
I don’t remember that last buttery bite
or why I’m still trying.
But I remember your fingers tap-tapping
and the stomach-scraping guilt of the empty carton.
I am the girl who will never feed you.


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