Nothing whispers more clearly to me of loneliness
Than the Stilton gone solid at the edges.
She always liked blue, you see,
And me just the idea of it.
I opened it once, thinking it might help
To crumble upon a tasteless soup or
Hopeless cracker,
And never before knew a world
Where cheese with edible moulds did not eat itself
Right out of the fridge.
Now the mould is mouldy, and
Even my grief has grief.
[This is a Featured Poem from our Spring 2024 Poetry Contest.]