A Feast to Last

by Steven J. Serafiani

Fuck I’m lonely.

I have brief visions of meeting her on a sunny afternoon in our rain.
Two Murakami
characters trying not to think too much, trying
not to despise humanity.
She comes over and asks to sit,
takes a spoonful of my gelato without asking,
goes into a story about when she was a little girl,
holds back salt glisten til she can’t,
I’ll dab away a single droplet with my thumb
I’ll tell her about my anxiety disorder and issues with my father
she’ll comfort me with just a look.
We walk the town whose namesake has occupied time longer than we care to to think
she kneels and pets a german shepard, smiles for the first time
tells me she paints, but hasn’t in
months- depression paints her.
tell her I am a writer of rubbish and balled up sheets- the trashcan is my
biggest fan.
share a smoke on the steps of a cathedral
we don’t believe in any of it; just
feast on the brevity of
stub cig out on a gargoyle;
stand up, sigh and grip each other hard enough to haunt forty
more years.
Then we go our separate ways.

In these visions, I always wonder if she looked back.
I sure as hell did.