leftovers

He fades from my memory like the leftovers in my fridge. They befuddle me at first: what can I do with them? How do I convert them into something palatable? Then their presence begins to irk me: why have they not disappeared yet? Why do they have to be so difficult and nagging on my conscience? Finally, I feel the pain of losing what is still present. I know that what they were was too distinct to be recombined into something new. I know that our relationship has rotted into mephitic waste. And so with sadness I let the leftovers go, allowing for new saporific morsels to creep in and push out the pain.

And they do.

Slowly but surely, I come across new and different flavors. I do not enjoy them fully yet, but they give me pleasure. I feel pangs of guilt about my inability to appreciate this newness in full, but it is all I can do. I will experiment slowly until I am ready to feast again, having cast off my fear and anxiety from what is past.