The poster is crooked, men with smiling teeth slanting down, towards the brown carpet that was once pink.
One day, you told me the bread had grown moldy, and I was silent, waiting for you to force my lips against the brown crusts before you tossed them into a pile of refuse.
"Our love has grown moldy, like the moon."
"The moon can't grow moldy" you said, your fingers reaching for the nape of my neck.
"It's a metaphor", I replied, trying not to feel the gray fuzz that grazed my lips as the loaf of bread came towards me.
"How does it taste?" you asked.
"It tastes of you", I said.
Your tears were not beautiful: They were salt-rivers flooding red cheeks, and I thought you looked raw, like a peice of meat.
The crooked poster's women are not smiling. They hold hands, waiting.
What are they waiting for?
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