Memories at Mealtime

And so memories of you gather like feral felines around my feet at the sound of an opening can or the crack of a brandy bottle. For beasts of this nature feed upon such poison, contorting and mutating with the newfound fuel. Howling horribly and clawing with empty promises at my stomach lining. Pining, craving as the vein does for a quick fix, providing some indulgence of the growing mental infection. When nothing numbing is left, these persistent little parasites ravage their way through the melting muscle in my chest, past freshly forming breasts, till they dust their feet off on my common sense and swat at my synapses like string. Until in time they slow and sing:
“Oh, what sorrow you shall bring.
When to the fractured past we drink”
For a second, my fingers flail to find my phone,
and I remind you I’m alone.
[Cue the audience to groan]
A well known mistake,
made by the greatest of fakes,
with too much regret to finish the food on their plate.
Guess it’s better never than too late.