Theory of Moving On

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.