Pistachio, when I first learned your name
It was long and reminded me of nothing—
The always-full ice cream bucket,
My third grade class and asking if your namesake
Came from a tree or a bush.

This snow, this snow, this consumption.
It is a sinister tabula rasa, a second flood
More permanent.

So it follows that this is when I feel the safest;
Yes, I cannot leave my house, but
Neither can the unwelcome enter.

It has become easier to count the hours
Than the number of days, because those, my friend
Those are easily limitless.

All of the tables, even the biggest one,
(which is meant for handicapped customers,
which is why I moved two hours ago),
are fitted with one chair at this hour.
I am ******* at dried ice with a straw
Because I do not want to leave a tip for a third drink
I am listening to Stupidity Tries because its easier not to change the song
I am forcing myself to look out the window instead of at the man reading the Dan Brown book,
the barista smiling at received texts under the counter,
the woman in the red evening dress who has been here almost as long as I have,
who has now taken her shoes off
who is forcing herself not to look out the window.

Everyone in Starbucks at night is alone,
Save laptops and tale-telling textbooks
From spilt coffee left by adolescents hours ago.

On a Saturday Morning in late February
it made sense not to let the grey skies
hinder our plans.

We set out for the most mundane reasons:
dry cleaning, one gallon of milk,
two new bars of soap.

Driving down 108, there were no other cars,
and there were no other radios,
and there were no other breaths.

Neither hurried nor harried, the raindrops
made me smile, and the swimming clouds
made you drive slower, so we hushed the engine.

Wind cold against my face, the water was still
and I could smell the earth and
It was the first day.

I love the fireworks
less for the supersonic rumblings,
more for the growl in the back of my stomach as
The sky seems so dark when it is lit
Like that, with sparks like crayons.
From where we are, the boom is delayed.

Yellowing, myopic, cataract-studded eyes
Focused on my face, as if to forever imprint
Each crevice, each line, each dip and undulation
Into a sharp mind obscured by cloudy retinas.

I like you so much that I hate you;
I cannot tell the difference between “butterflies in my stomach” and “I am about to throw up.”

I want to learn new things with you.
Carrying loads of books in our arms down the street when we’re too broke for the bus.
be with me.

I want to die with you,
Buried under rubble, hands clasped, sharing the same pocket of air till we can no longer breath it.