I'm living off pasta to get over you –
you can tell. A big jar next to the stove.
Just penne and butter. The French way?

Spent two thirds of my rent last week
being Pandora. Can-opening wounds
from my last squeeze blended with love

that will not come. This tastes of
camping: cheap cask red and carbohydrates,
to compensate for that CD I bought

which I didn't want but hoped
would make me feel better. Now I think:
can cook for myself, don't need you,

while a tiny creature watches, chuckles,
then remains silent on the curtain rail.
You see, I have this theory that if

she never opened that box I could
believe that noodles can be a substitute
for all things, a leveller of desire (al dente)-

as it is, I maneuver wheat onto my tongue
in order to keep away from the phone;
as if, calling you, I may unfasten a hinge.