Theory of Moving On
By Erika Bell
The warm
chocolate-filled,
wine colored,
flowered,
date nights
are among me again.
Three months ago I thrived in this time.
I twisted my curly hair,
knotted it around my polished ring finger
and you rubbed my knee
sending soft shots of confirmation through my veins.
Though, I am here again.
Not here, where we were.
Somewhere new.
I look across the table and
you’re not scratching your scruff
and talking about the impending doom of the world
and I’m not staring into your glossy hazel eyes
as you wolf down that spinach dip.
I look into a dark brown set of eyes now.
He talks of working out.
There’s no scruff to scratch.
He eats his Greek salad with a fork
and
a
knife.
The bedazzled night is above our heads
like a giant headlight on my heart.
