our trolleys collide
in the confectionery aisle
her eyes still flickering
with a familiar flame
she looks through
the ribs of my trolley
as though looking into my heart
to see what my life has acquired
a dozen or so regrets
a bag of heartache
a carton of bitterness
(the concentrated variety)
and crushed beneath
one litre of unsweetened misery
is a small packet of hope
(the cheap, generic brand)
her frugal smile tells me
I am not what she is looking for
that I am far too expensive;
she puts me back on the shelf
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