The fridge light makes everything look forgiven.

Half a roast chicken
wrapped in foil soft as old jewellery,
rice gone stiff at the edges,
three olives in a bowl
like something abandoned after a party.

You stand there barefoot at midnight
eating cold pasta from the container,
the fork scraping plastic,
the whole apartment humming
with small electrical griefs.

Leftovers are a form of faith.

Someone once believed
there would be another hunger.
Someone salted the soup carefully,
saved the heel of bread,
folded the paper around the cheese
instead of throwing it away.

In the back,
a slice of birthday cake hardens slowly,
still carrying the shape
of celebration.

The onions taste sweeter tomorrow.
The curry deepens.
Even sorrow improves with a night alone.

You learn this
when you begin living by yourself.

How a body circles back
to what remains.
How love sometimes looks like
a labelled container,
your name written in tired marker,
waiting quietly
on the second shelf.