Bread

Breadcrumbs were seated behind us,

in the car,

as my eyes followed you,

following the sat nav,

and avoiding my eyelashes,

that were loudly shouting

“Look at me,

so that I know

that you love me.”

We scaled the sky,

breadcrumbs,

closing their eyes,

afraid of heights,

and I thought of how I’d miss the sight

of you cleaning your car,

when I was gone,

far from you,

the mountains,

the bread I bought but never intended to eat,

the way you asked if I was frightened,

by the reckless way you drove,

the way I found myself,

sitting on the lap of fear,

but denying its presence,

because you were present.

I miss you,

like your car probably misses the nice man at the car wash,

who takes good care of her,

and smiles as he holds her in his arms,

wiping away the stresses of the world.

I don’t know why I’m fixating on the bread.

I watched you take a bite,
the next morning,

as I wrote poetry,

about the way you’d held me the night before.

You astounded me,

and even though you were by my side,

my body burned for you,

not just with desire,

but a desperate,

pleading,

needy kind of ache.

“Look at me,

so that I know

that you love me.”

You kissed me,

instead,

and my lips told my mind,

that sometimes,

a man can look,

with more than one of his senses.