The Buffet

She left a bitter taste;
a tongue stained
in disappointment.
Now he only dines
at the buffet;
filling his plate
with hot flesh,
meaty cuts,
lean legs,
oiled skin.
Spoonfuls of red,
or brunette,
on the side.
Dips his fingers
into chocolate,
white cakes,
strawberry pie.
Thickens his heart,
feeds his eyes, yet
disregards the hunger.
For nothing here fills.
Nothing sustains.

author: rashael crystal
artwork: conrad roset