Hunger Strike

Sometimes I get nostalgic
for the nights when
I would sit in a chair
naked,

trying to choke
a gurgling bong,
hoping not to wake you
as you stretch out in my bed.
The vague light from the street
pooling up on your white breasts.

And I ask myself
why I bullshitted you.
Made you think
you were the first
to come
and last to go.
When you never
asked to be.

I go over again
the mornings after.
Where you would
dissolve behind
a strangers car door,
starving.

And I would
lie in bed,
famished.

Each of us never
risking to ask
the other
if they were
hungry.