This wedding cake was a waste
of money, my mate says
back in daily life after the big event.
He hacked me off a slice and wrapped it.
Now the moon’s pale glare
is pooling on the floor of this room
that smells of old dinner, my own small
chaos of noise the only thing
rearranging the stifling air.
I leave it to sit on the steps
before the oxygen rush
of the distant sea.
It’s freezing and that second step
is useless, I swear to God I’m going
to break my ankle some morning,
but now it’s holding strong.
And I’m loving that waste
of money now, forked out of this
dry husk of foil with the
white ganache stiff at the edges,
watching the moon’s milky reflection
a wavering slick on the sea.
My breath in the cold is
a lid off a pot on the boil,
the steam rising into the endless air.
It’s easy to begin thinking
there’s no one in the world
to witness this but me,
that everyone I ever gave my heart
needed me until they didn’t,
that there’s nothing moving
anywhere at all right now
except for the sea, and me.
But sitting hunched against the cold
with a mouth full of sweetness
and shivering, that moon
and its reflection