On Strawberry Rhubarb Pie (and Trust)

I wish that this could be longer. But I can't for the life of me extend it without it being blatantly obvious. So, here is the original short version. 

~Z 

If emotions were to take human form for a day, 

I would ask each of them a question. 

Of Rage, I would aspire to know

why he chose to dwell in the back of my throat, instead of my stomach, 

and why he had permanently damaged my gag reflex, so I could not be rid of him, 

could not vomit words crafted in his likeness back out at the world. 

Of love, I would dearly love to know

why she felt the need to marry such an undeserving man 

as uncertainty. 

Lust would be grilled as to why he, of all people, remained single; 

why did he not jump at the chance to marry that gorgeous, bright-eyed woman

that Love once was? 

And of Trust, I would inquire as to why he was

so rude, 

and never bothered to thank us for the food we gave him. 

An unruly and moody sort of person, 

he stayed at my house for a year or two, 

making sure that he got the choicest bits of the pie. 

It was his favorite kind, he explained many times;

strawberry rhubarb. 

My mother and I spent much of our time, 

as the months ticked on, 

making that pie for him. 

As suddenly as he appeared, 

he had become a regular at our dessert table, 

my mother's and mine. 

I don't know what spurred him to leave

 - although I must admit, the dessert table had become

less and less populated towards the end - 

but he was suddenly gone one morning, 

his spacious room unkempt and torn apart, 

as if there had been a struggle. 

Had he somehow been forced to leave? 

And if so, why? 

But now, it hardly matters, 

because my mother and I

no longer have any reason to make pies anymore. 

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