mongol pencils are great

We wandered around the mall, aimlessly, maybe even twice. Going up escalators, leaning over railings, stopping by fountains, passing through walkways, crossing the street, running down stairs and all the while, we never stopped talking.  We were yuppies acting like teenagers. 

I think it was humid but we kept holding hands anyway. You laughed at the beads of sweat on my nose and decided to be a gentleman and look for two things: air-conditioning and seats.

Then we found this place. Literally crammed underneath the escalator, it felt like space converted as an afterthought to make just a little more money. 

We walked in and snickered. How the hell does this place make money? Who cares, it's cozy, cold and empty.  Good for us!  

We picked the booth farthest from the door and nearest the counter. Booths were our thing.  Comfy-er than regular chairs but not quite couches either.  High backs gave us our own little world.  Roomy enough for my hobo purse and your backpack....occasionally an umbrella too.

Oooohhh, there was a magazine rack! I grabbed random dog-eared and slightly tattered fashion, lifestyle and teen publications while you signaled the waiter for a menu.  I plonked them down on the marble table and slid in next to you.  You put your arm around me.  We pored over the menu and made fun of all the corny dessert names.  Not a surprise that I pick vanilla and you some whatever chocolate thing. In between mouth fulls, we argue loudly which tastes better.  The sleepy server shoots us a look.  So you intently tinker with your phone.  I absently flip through the glossy pages.  We make small talk in unhurried, hushed tones now, and soon lapse into companionable silence.

You hold my hand again.  Who would have thought that something as rough as your calloused palm had any propensity for tenderness.  The kind that cradles mine like a hatchling about to cry.

And I just want to freeze this moment in time.  But of course it just melts away, like ice cream, without a freezer, in summer.

*photos grabbed from marcruiz graphic designer

For one so articulate and one so intelligent

For one with the instinctive knack of picking the right word

To use at the right time, for the right person

Words have failed her, she thinks

This is not just another verbal sparring match.

A song would do much better.

Not just one, but a whole let of them, so

She strings them together and playlists them.

That's her message in a bottle.

Fire wall, picket fence, electric barbed wire

She's just like you, needing

To build, to protect,

That which is fragile, that which easily dies.

Her love she locked it in a Faberge egg

And fed it to the maleficent dragon with no feelings.

She walks away falsely triumphant

With blue flames licking her heels.

Now she can smile

Function

Socialize.

A momentary glimpse out of the corner of her eye

She blinks it away

Humming Gotye

You're just somebody that she used to know.

Vanity and appetite have eloped and run away

So I am stuck here staring at your swirling opaqueness.

You carry the faint scent of comfort, with a

Teasing promise of relief.

Oh and you whisper, that

You care not for my pale, dry neck but

Only that I let you burn a trail down my parched throat, and

Allow you to permeate my insides.

Do I let you?

Even mirrors can't give me the warm fuzzy feeling you do.

I am frightened just as you are frightening

Grudging respect our only fellowship

You, a brand on the blemishless

Me, blemished as a survivor

You are numb to the touch

My fingers trace around

Nothing

Oh but you are something

You are

A jagged bookmark in a page of a book called life.

Eyeballing imaginary cracks

Making up stories in my mind

About the elongated shadows cast by the

Dim orange lamp.

I want to sleep but every other minute surprises me

With a groan, maybe a whistle

Then there's a thwack, a thump, a thud and perhaps even scratching.

I smile, secretly wondering what if the Doctor was real, or

Maybe even the moving castle with turrets of smoke and a fire demon engine.

But no, it's only the wind

Trying to be stealthy, as it pushes rain clouds in the night.

I hear rain in my dreams.