A monument sketched on a disposable napkin
He does not know that I am disinterested he is only interested in filling, making nauseous work like a dog finishing every scrap in the bowl long past the pains of hunger. He does not know that chasing words coy smiles and hands gently pulling wrists is not a filling meal that I am a person, not a prize to be won but he is a subway car and sometimes the hands trailing down my stomach are only tender because they know what to do when they reach the bottom. He wipes his soiled mouth on a napkin and makes sweet artistry of me with his eyes because he knows that I am the model the rough draft the fine collector’s item. So I wipe my mouth with the tablecloth and make a bridge with my knuckles a skyscraper with my thighs flesh homes and a pumping gurgling heart teeth like beautiful bricks because I am the fucking architect.