spoonfeeding casanova

creme brûlée i thinki’m sure he’s overweighti can’t see because the tablesweren't purchased with the heightof the banquettes in mindthe woman with the spoonglances over to me every couple biteslike she knows about meor at least what i used to be like everyone in the place has a sideof sautéed kale that they won't finishwilting further in a tiny enamel cast iron potordering dessert with a creamy flirty looklike an aunt visiting from out of townfeigning surprise once friesthat she ordered arrive at the tablethe same surprise as when her eye creamand crystals do not work and in the morninglooking back in the mirror she sees her shadow self i’m eating some disappointing chicken dishmore bone than anythingfocusing on farro and countinghow long its been sincemy last gout attackwhile wondering if this womanhas looked again at me she may havebut like the manynotebooks i fill 1/10th and then buy anotherthe same way my mother chain smokeshalf of her salems lighting with the tipsof the old stuffing them into a napkin filledwith her spit to put out the embersi feel too young still to glance a second time

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Paasha Motamedi · paasha.motamedi@gmail.com