Adam (without Eve)

he wears thick dark frames,

his pale overwashed shirt

hanging limply over his thin body

as he

hunches over his soup

watching as it grows cold.

His milky hands

tenderly hold a hand written note

maybe from his dead wife

as he slowly deconstructs his sandwich:

peeling off the bread,

the tomato

the cheese

the skirt of lettuce

the feeble ham

and nibbles on each separately,

quietly

intently

as if it was

exactly the way he imagined

his grief:

slowly eating away at it

one bit

at a time

until it occupies his insides

lives there with its weight

and he knows he'll hunger later

for more

but for now,

its gone

and no one sees it anymore.

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