Tried to recreate the last supper.
A lot of hugs and future plans,
places we’d meet. Places
we’d come back to, order the usual.

I order it all of the time,
at the head of the table,
though I’m the only eating,
the only one there.

It’s close. The same soundtrack,
but warped from the heat,
making everything sound thinner,
distant, with a thin coat of static.

I can almost grab it,
just beyond the seams
of my hoodie pockets.
In the next post on my newsfeed,
or the one after that.

I pay for this, too.
Hard-earned money, longer hours
just for standing room in the mezzanine
of my own memories. Maybe,
if I renamed my girlfriend nostalgia
I’d go home more often.