Plastic Gestures

The trash has been removed by wind and truck, by hands much smaller and hearts much larger than his. The twinkling lights no longer shine on the tree or in my eyes. Scourer of malls, hunter of treasures magpie to the crownless king, reveling in his “just” deserts? The cold, meaningless, plastic gesture of his disregard lay under the barren Xmas tree, barren, as his love for me. His treasures piled high, exquisitely dripping with each memorized desire, truffles melting on his thoughtless tongue, scrapbook memories litter the pointless horizon. Soon, he would attempt to hurl three decades of subservient gestures out, out like the small flame of love left, in the empty space which was my heart.