fruit flies

We spoke the nights away
in dimly lit rooms, your unmade faces,
looking backwards whilst our mouths
look blindly forwards. In the midst of
not yet packed boxes, suitcases yet to pack

unmade make do beds, fruit, rotting
on the low table, fruit flies swarming around
the necks of empty bottles,
clothes, hanging on a bent curtain rail,

like children we spoke the hours away , clasping
our long gone memories of child like days
and look at each other, at our wilting candor
at our day by day blemishing faith, at
our untarnished love and our lurching grit.
So we raise our glasses, we laught to grit,

we laugh, our voices are like shattered glass,
we laugh, shaking madly our ash filled lungs
where fruit flies nest and breed by the dozen