The Falsehood of a Romanticized Ideal

Spoon sat on the living room coffee table alone.
There were no cups or plates nearby to keep her company.
They were all sitting in the sink or cupboard waiting
for their usefulness to be called to action.

A cheap cigarette lighter sat next to Spoon
like a lover fallen asleep on the bed on top of the sheets.
She was sick she said. Doctor said to stay at home
for at least 90 days or so.

Spoon just sat there looking at me and then
looked away. We said no words. We just looked
at each other and wondered how we got there
on such a nondescript night.

As I got up to leave
I kept wondering if she wanted to come with me.
Spoon remained there, silent.
Her face caked in dirty white.