friday to sunday

bundled up in freezing white spaces, how did we all end up here. his hands with hints of grey paint, her soft words self depricating and that scruffy scarf. two girls so keen, so shiny and right, but just babes really. and i liked her eyes, and how they caught me from across the room, and later her parka, like mine, with bell sleeves, and i thought, simply, we might be friends. it's cold though, inside and out, my hands are wrapped tight around my tea, but i'm telling my story. this story of mine, the words drop from my lips. i'm in england, i think as i push through tunnels on the way home, each overpass darkening the empty car for a second. pacing further forward, i'm forgetting my stop.
then home with you, tomato pizza and shiraz, i'm licking my fingers, i'm licking your fingers. this bottle is finished.

in the morning, after coffee, we go hunting for junk. poking though sopping skips, slowing down past crooked alleyways, and then, sighing over typewriters and alarm clocks and tin kitchenware, adoring the rounded edges crafted over and over in teak. i almost forget what we are building, this imagined future. but we keep searching and choosing, and somehow it's unfolding without certainty and without even walls or rooms or doors.

later, the fog rolled in slowly as the sun set, and the strip was crisp, the sky like paper and the waves never pausing not even for a minute. i'm smiling and running and laughing at dogs, and finding your hand in my pocket.


i'm waking you up, and it's early. red plums and soy milk, then we head out for the bridge. nobody shows, wrong day, i'm really not sure.
'we seem to have bad luck with these things', 'no never. we are the luckiest', but how can that be? so inseatd tea at the piano and a bite of your salted caramel, and a familiar face across the cafe. finally a familiar face.