You like your coffee, french press
& between a week & a day old grind
You say you’re not a connoisseur, but your tongue can tell the difference.
A “koinonia” with coffee
A bagel joint for vegan cubanos, but also, a place to read
& One cigarette on days you go to the gym
You’re allergic to oranges, tomatoes and yeast
But that didn’t stop you from chugging two pints of beer, melted cheddar & jalapenos with
tortilla chips
You said, that night- you didn’t have “no fucking allergies”
You’re a tortured artist, your soul bleeds through words & your eyes give you away
You have your own bookstore manner.
You hate everything, Murakamis “are door stoppers” & Ayn Rand “romanticizes Republican values”
But The Fountainhead gave you an opinion on selfishness & pretentious architecture
You buy me your favorite Carlos Luis Zafón
& beg, no demand that I read it.
You don’t “take favors”
But blushed when I gave you Neruda’s Twenty Love Poems- Michael Faudet’s erotic poetry, you said, “touched you in places-”
-No hands ever could
We walked the winding streets of Hill Road that sloped down to show us “the masses” en face d’ ebbed sea
You spoke of your adventures in Kathmandu, democratic transitions & monarchical ideals.
“Growing up is depressing, the Earth is dying. I feel so alone” You sighed.
I shrugged. My world, had just come to life, two lonely souls.
You teared up when I left, the night before your flight
I wanted to tell you that I loved you
But you, I think you already knew.