You and I, loosely hinged friends.
You rang. In town. We met for a meal
at the intersection where rain soaks
the pavement and forks off.
You ate minced beef, raw to ruby red
with green capers rolling on the plate.
You stabbed at the raw egg mounted
on top, a bulging eye staring at you,
and it bled itself dry across the plate.
Everything about that day was raw.
The conversation, difficult, tough.
We chewed on sinewy words, and
sputtered on thoughts.
And then my heart torqued a bit.
I realised that we had nothing left
to say. Our former-days friendship
had left the table. You sipped wine.
I sucked on ice cubes that tortured
my nerves and dissolved to water.