Soliloquy in Yellow

we sit in the kitchen, conversing
in a light sort of fashion
over our petit déjeuner,
eyeballing the cracks
in the freshly whitewashed walls.

the sun leaves fingermarks
on the tablecloth and i imagine
our hands perform a shadow play.

you talk of your lovers
and the constant demands,
and how you'd love to buy yourself
a little boat and travel the world.
you'd write about your adventures
and, who knows, you say,
you could be the next Hemingway.

i smile and sip my sugary tea,
bitterly biting my underlip
while your gaze drifts away.

you lick the smoke
from your cigarette and grin;
your musings are an abstract to me.
my feelings show through
the worn-out coating
like a pentimento.

you call me sentimental,
we laugh out loud, and i offer you
more croissants and coffee cream.

inside, it leaves me feeling
like an overripe apricot
in which you keep
sticking your fingers,
trying to get the pit out.

you think i'm quite ordinary.
that's a good thing, you say,
being in the spotlight is such a drag.
my heart is an ashtray;
heedlessly you stub your cigarettes
into its sore flesh.

i should've known
you were cold-hearted
the moment i first touched
your hand and it felt
nearly bloodless.

pass the apples,
you ask absentmindedly,
and i oblige, left in my limbo
to count the cuts and smile
at your remarks.