The Jelly Jar

I say I will leave him when the jelly jar is empty.
Full, new, brimming with with the fruit and seeds of sweetness,
I take small teaspoons from the top.
Late nights alone later, I weep into my napkin,
The toast forgotten and bitter with its dusting of preserves.
Half full yet, doors slam and my head aches in dull daylight while
I spoon heapings of the stuff upon pancakes and even chicken legs.
I watch him across the table but he remains oblivious to my desire.
In the end, I claim the last bite of the gooey fruit,
as rich and sweet as the first, and I leave
the empty jar.