ruins of the day

pretty girl sat alone on the table adjacent to ours. i said, he can have her. he can have any girl. he turned to his cappucino. his eyes smiling though he said he's not interested. i laughed and so did our poet friend, exhaling nicotine-laced smoke. and then he, as all guys perhaps are bound to do, looked at the pretty stranger at the corner of his eye. the pretty girl asked for a light. i almost whacked him in the head for not standing up and lighting the ziggy for her. oh well.

we laughed it off and huddled once again, the three of us. friends forever inside our own bubble. the burden of the day quickly went away. our laughter, my very own joy joy pill- better than any pot.

the poet and i talked about how it is that the most important love cannot be counted as more than an unclassified, non-categorized memory. a hazy thought that we agreed on. and he, recipient of unsolicited fussing-over by a harem of the most gorgeous women he'd ever have around, looked at us- contemplative one minute and then commanded us to kiss- the poet and i, in one breath.

he is always like that. you pour out your heart to him and end up finding the ridiculous grit in your pain.

but if love can be tasted, it would be for us, the heightened flavor of the biting caffeine and the nicotine rush that night. only with them can a paper cup hold so much comfort and a stick can unlock the universe. living without them would be like living half a life.