old noodles

what now clutters palms in rash repair
settles debts with jesters,

spitting loudly, and calling out
bluffs settled by jesters-

when the days where blinks
left to up to

the Sun.

you asked me how we could dine
selfishly-on the flesh, grown

so thick the bacon curls
itself-

and in an instant be strangers.

you ask me with sounds, incomplete

but with purpose,

unmouthed, but leaking through the hole
in your shirt.

you left the party early,
but my jeans still smelt of lipgloss

and the story you told me, about a knight
who slayed a dragon,

and lost the ability to speak.

I know now, that you could never be loved
between stares

and that lunch you spent alone.

I will never know all the bands you think
are cool,

and why you need to be stared at
constantly.

but you could never be loved

will always

be loved by someone
giving it to you hard, like old noodles

stuck to empty bowls,
turning white.