by Zoe Konstantinou
You read my poems and tore the pages.
a Chinese poem played on the speakers.
Black dirty pots on the hob.
He read the poems. It’s fine.
Now he prepares filter coffee in a dirty machine.
His friend pointed it out.
It’s ok, I needed coffee. He wanted me gone soon.
My eyes clung to him. Sentimental stalking.
I lit a cigarette then another. He didn’t like that.
There was a knife on the stove. For meat.
He took it up,
feigned stabbing me. Smiling
more than once.
Time to leave.
P.S: Inscrutable desires