Bread and Butter

Bread and Butter

Emily Holmes

We hold hands

like butter melting

onto warm toast,

never to part

until something terrible

comes in our

way.

What do I

say to the

children? The grand

children? That you

died in vain

because you refused

to believe in

my silly superstition?

Once you butter

your bread it

can't be unbuttered,

just like you

can't be undead.

You're not yet

cold in the

grave yet my

heart aches with

the loss of

your deep snoring

keeping me tossing

and turning at

night.

You musn't think

I'm crazy now

looking down from

the skies. You

said nothing would

ever come between

us holding hands.

We were the

couple that youngsters

would smile to

their love and

say that's us

in 70 years.

But that pole

was the death of us.

It hurt us

beyond repair. I

said bread but

you said rubbish

as the life

got knocked out

of you by

a simple huverbike.

Going just a

little too fast

down the sidewalk.

Your beautiful head

crashed into the

pole which you

had been so

stubborn about.

Your silver hair

matched your silver

blood pouring from

your ear. You

lied to me.

You said you

would never leave

me when I

needed you most.

Now I'm nothing but

burnt toast that

nobody dares to

butter for nothing

will make it

taste any less

dead.