leftover lasagna
—------
you stand in the kitchen
barefoot on cold tile
holding a bill you can’t pay
and a memory you can’t sell.
both weigh exactly the same
in the humid dark.
-
the lasagna sits under foil
a small aluminum tomb
for last night’s ambition.
-
you peel it back
and the cheese has congealed
into a pale continent
drifting away from the sauce
the way people do
when they realize
forever was just
a borrowed word.
-
everything ends
in leftover lasagna
-
the red of marinara
turning the color of dried blood,
the noodles gone soft
as resolutions
in February
-
you fork a corner anyway.
it’s cold, stubborn,
tastes like evidence
you were once hungry
for something
besides this.
-
the bill flutters in your other hand
a white flag
surrendering to mathematics.
-
the memory
doesn’t flutter.
it just sits there
heavy as a cat
that knows you’ll feed it
even though it stopped purring
years ago.
-
you eat standing up
because sitting
would mean admitting
the day has already won.
-
the fork scrapes the glass dish
a thin metallic hymn
to small defeats.
-
one swallow
and the reminder
hits your throat,
as if ever
you meant
to pay for the light.
-
everything ends
in leftover lasagna
-
and still
you rinse the plate
because tomorrow
will pretend
it’s starving
all over again.