Starbucks, eight-thirty. She
complains about dates that she
could opt out of, if she wanted. She
complains about a boy with a mustache
and eating ice cream, and wears
her skirt from France.
Iím sitting here in corduroy pants, in my
Chuck Taylors, full of rips and holes, like my
everything. In pieces, shards, and fragments, my
life is this vibrant mosaic of words and sentiments.
My coffee is long gone, cold, and
Iím feeling very jealous.
She complains, but then thereís you.
Unattainable, untouchable. I think of you
and my head is on this fast locomotive. You
are a train through my thoughts in a caffeinated
rush of nighttimes and conversations about
poetry and wrinkled clothing.
Morning, three oíclock. I need this
to never end. Iíve wanted things but this
I canít control. She complains. She canít know this
is harder than being awkward. Harder than conversation.
She can complain about the things she can control
but I canít even complain about time or place.