We were happiest amongst mismatched chairs.

You shifted pristine dishes and puzzled space where there was none left.

I felt the touch of warm plates,

And you beamed over pleased murmurs whilst hungry hands devoured your efforts.

When the glasses had emptied,

And the immaculacy of dinner faded,
You caressed the candle’s flame.

You smeared its soot away,
Spilling stupid jokes and future hopes that never came to be.

Your childish mind gave sound to silence,
And you stopped the clock from turning.

You kicked my leg by accident.
And when everyone had left, you pushed me against the wall. 
Lazy shadows climbed over us at breakfast, 

As we waited for white bread to turn gold.
You left jam in the butter,
And butter in the jam.

You scraped mould from the marmalade.
And wiped it on a paper towel.
You never finished your cup of coffee,
But you stripped every fibre from a peach’s stone.
You left it naked,

And tore its flesh from your teeth with sickly conviction.

I remember curling trails of steam.
I remember regurgitated potato slapping against a cold plate.

I remember you peeling loose skin from the roof of your mouth and discarding it as if I wasn’t watching.

I was watching.

I watched you swipe gravy from the plate,

And suck on your finger to wipe it clean. 

I remember it repulsed me, 

Like crushing grit from an unwashed leaf between front teeth.
I remember a kinked trail of smoke from a doused match.
I remember its stale scent.

I remember your excitement to play rummy, 

Which quickly blunted as you’d forget it was your turn. 
You left dirty prints on a crystal glass. 

You spoke, and you spoke, and you spoke, and I listened 

To the same old story in the same slurred words,

So that even though I wasn’t there, I felt as if I always was.

You promised to fix the broken ashtray, 

Which would come out as soon as dessert was done. 

You never fixed the ashtray. 

Another artefact of empty promises that wasted into hazy conversation, 

And broken laughter. 

I used to love your laugh.

Until I didn’t any more.

I remember broken mornings,

When you rested your head on me with breadcrumbs stabbing at your elbows.

Sharp, like stubborn shards of eggshell, determined not to leave the bowl.
I used to like those mornings.

I liked taking the weight of the week’s shopping from you after you stepped through the door.

I liked the soft cloth you used to wipe me down after dinner.
I liked watching you fold a receipt three times over,

And placing it beneath my foot.

To be honest, I think you needed it more than me. 

But it doesn’t matter now. 

You’re leaving, and you’re not taking me with you.
That’s fine. 

I never liked the tablecloth you chose for me anyway.