The table had been cleared, and no, I did not serve seconds.
Your lips filthy, swollen, glistening with remnants;
I could have fed you feces, and you wouldn't have cared.

Thus, we sat comfortably on cushioned satisfaction,
replacing distant stares [or were they glances?].
I do not care, but you appeared gorged, while my gut howled .

A silent symphony flowed liquid through my cage,
yet you swayed your twisted leg to the noise of fractured dishes.
Hands soft and unprovoked, masked the laughter of your seer.

Like a servant stealing morsels
from the king growing slumberous at the feast;
I witnessed your drunken flee,
as I tasted desire from my finger tips.

[My soul, on golden platter;
yet you scurried with a carcass.

Gnaw on bones and empty words
you've got nothing
...nothing but maggots.]

Just before you dozed off into denial,
you hurled a few stunning words in my direction.
I answered, brightly and undiscovered,

“Yes, of course there's dessert!”