Bitter Rinds

When it ends
it’s like trying to forget
the taste of fruit.
You meet them in the grocery store,
eyes touching over the strawberries,
and you make some little inquiry
about the ripeness of the fruit
to soften the impact of hearing
that their life is much the same.

You don’t tell them you stopped
listening to jazz because you last heard it
holding hands in the park,
and they keep to themselves that
they don’t drink chamomile because
you shared it after sex on a rainy day.

You make your life sound overripe,
insert slices of your best moments since they left;
a little honey to hide the bitter of your core,
both wanting and unwilling to let them know
you couldn’t eat for four days
because their absence made you sick—
craving a glimpse of that guilt blossoming
In their irises at the expense
of nourishing any thought that you felt better
when they left.

But you hide all your bruises
amongst the apples in your basket,
and they do much of the same before
you wish each other well and mostly mean it.