Hunger Strike

I set the plate on the table in front of you.

Your eyes never touch me.

If only I could light up and glow for you the way screens do.

But my light dims daily. I wonder when it will finally wink out.

Will it be in the spring, when the sunny daffodils poke their noses up and remind me of that 60s song you sang to me at our wedding?

"I do not have a fortune to buy you pretty things, but I can weave you moonbeams for necklaces and rings."

I don't think I'll make it that long.

Winter has moved into my chest and quite likes it here, thanks very much.

I've begun to welcome her, and great news- her cousin, Apathy, tagged along.

They're better company than the dying embers, and I'm tired of wasting my breath.

I invite the frozen dark to take it all away.

Hope is for fools.

I am a tundra, I tell myself.

Obdurate. Insensate. Numb.

I am the picture of indifference.

Until-

"Thanks, Honey. That was delicious."

The embers rekindle and I begin to thaw in spite of myself.

Goddamn you.

Your compliments are as rare as your steak, but I melt like butter anyway.

And you've gone and made of fool of me again.