Awkwardly she stands by me
and speaks about the weather.

Honestly, does she believe
that I am something better?

If this isn't good,
I don't know what is.*
I thought to myself.

It was a habit I picked up
from reading too many books;
to acknowledge the good
occurrences when they occurred.

It seems they happen more often
when you pay attention.
However, don't imagine
that the scene was perfect.

We woke up
on a hardwood floor,
hungover
and sleep-deprived.

My jacket was
the pillow,
and, luckily, someone
had draped a blanket
over us.

A cat wandered
under the blanket,
and sat down on my
naked shins,
which shook us
from our slumber.

She laughed as his tail
swooshed slowly across her leg
and pulled my arm
around her.

"I never expected
to wake up next to you."
She said,
in a whimsical way

We shooed the cat out
(he was quite stubborn)
and laughed together at the
absurdity of it all.

Later, we kissed farewell
and promised to meet again.
Now, I sit in contemplation;
recalling all I can about the night.

Moments are just that --
moments.
Parsed smaller and smaller
the further you look.

I don't need to remember each
minutiae -- how many seconds
elapsed between each breath --
only how I felt at her side.

I think this is what I'm aiming to do:
to hold each reminiscence sacred.

It's two in the morning
and we find Sam still
awake, staring at the ceiling
of his cramped studio apartment.

Overhead, thumps can be heard
along with moans of squelched desire.

He rolls out of bed, gets dressed,
and begins his evening perambulations.

Don's Donuts is his destination.
Although he doesn't much
care for fried sugar bread,
it's the only place open.

He buys a  few maple bars
and takes a seat at a bench,
near his overly-intoxicated peers.

The smell of whiskey and puke
permeate the establishment,
and Sam ponders why he doesn't
succumb to the same alcoholism.

Hey, Sam.
A voice registers
in his conscious attention.

He looks left.
He looks right.
He looks up.
He looks down.

No one is paying him any mind.
Besides, he doesn't recognize
the faces otherwise.

Yeah, Sam. It's me.
The same borderline authoritative
tone echoes over the drone
of the inebriated crowd.

Sam furrows his brow
and lifts the paper plate.
A small, luminous man
about the size of Sam's thumb

sits cross-legged under the plate.
He grins and golden emanations
cascade and unfurl from his
long (relatively), tied-up hair.

It's okay, Sam. You're doing fine.
Everybody likes you more
than you think they do.
You need to stop being so ******* yourself.

I'm just here to give you some
encouragement. You've seemed
a little down in the dumps
these past few weeks.

Listen, man, I know you've had it rough,
but suffering isn't a ******* contest.
This, too, will pass.
And you'll be a better person for it.

Then maybe you can help people who
are going through the same problems.
That's all you really can do, man.
Just help the people you're around.

Sam stands up which sends the chair
skidding across the floor into an
adjacent table. He flings the paper plate
(which still has a donut-and-a-half!)

against the window and screams
in a manner which contradicts
his timid demeanor:
"Who are you? Get out of my head!"

A police officer who, before this incident,
was finishing his third bear claw of the evening
observes the outburst and intervenes.

"Say, are you okay?" The officer puts
his hand on Sam's shoulder.
"What're you on tonight?"
The officer had seen a few
Drug War soldiers
exhibit similar collapses.

Sam feels threatened, he pushes
the officer out of the way
and hurries out the door
and down the street.

The officer follows in pursuit
and shoots his taser into
Sam's back. The electric
shock causes his heart's

circuitry to become irreparably
confused. He drops to the ground,
dead as the day before conception.

Will walked to his car, alone.
Another late night given to
that thankless, soul-stealing
excuse for employment.

As he opened his car door,
a gun being cocked
sounded behind him.

Then a voice:
"Give me the car
and your cash."

Will laughed:
"I've got nothing worth taking.
**** me and be done with it."

The hole in his belly
didn't hurt nearly as
bad as he thought it would.

A woman heard the shot,
and came running over
after the murderer had fled.

She said:
"I'm Maggie, don't worry.
Help is on the way."

Will awoke in a hospital.
He stared at Maggie,
and reasoned something like this:

"Well, I got shot; I'm probably dead.
And the silhouette of your hair
against the window looks
an awful lot like a halo."

She blushed:
"I waited all night for someone
to come visit you; to make sure
you were okay."

Then truth in reply:
"I've got no one and nothing.
You'll wait there forever if you're
looking for someone who cares."

She frowned:
"That's not true!
Clearly I care about you."

Will, in disbelief:
"So it appears.
I guess there's a first for everything."

She held his hand:
"But I've got work to go to.
I'll be back in the evening.
I'm glad you're alive."

Will nodded.
Things were certainly
changing for the better.

Maggie left.
An intern entered,
staring at a clipboard.

The intern, to herself:
"Well, 'Will' is certainly
a lot like 'Bill'.

And it's only penicillin;
what's the worst that
could happen?"

A few moments later,
Will died of a massive
allergic reaction.

Oh well.
Easy come, easy go.

Wednesday:

A movie theater
at around six o'clock
with beer and a movie for
only five bucks.

(Who could resist such a deal?)

As I stood in a line to
buy myself a drink,
I observed the other people.

Mostly couples.
A couple families.
Probably a few
small groups of friends.

But no one else alone,
as far as I could tell.
So I paid for my drink
and returned, alone, to my seat.

Then, just before the feature:

A woman turned my way,
as if she had something to tell me;
but instead she spoke to some guy
standing just over my shoulder:

"Oh, honey-pie, my dear!
You were almost late to the show!"

I laughed on the inside,
finished my beer,
and left.

Thursday:

Sunset in the marsh;
sitting on a bench
with a bottle of wine
to keep me company.

A woman walked by,
and couldn't bare
to look me in the eye.

She tripped over her dog
while trying to ignore my existence;
and, after apologizing to the
animal (what a human thing to do!)

she turned towards me, blushing.
I laughed and I smiled
but she grew more red in response.
Then she hurried along, leaving me alone to drink.

"Do you miss me?" She asked.
And I, trying my best not to lie,
said how I felt, in reply:

"I'm enjoying my solitude."
We'd been apart scarcely a day,
after being inseparable for months.

"Well, enjoy your solitude."
Immediately I understood the
influence of an honest word.

Ah, that's the last sentence I heard
before I was left to contemplate
the soft silence on the other side
of an empty receiver.

I slept well the first few nights,
expecting to find her back in my
arms by the end of the week.

Our paths never crossed again,
and her phone's been disconnected
(she probably forgot to pay).

She left a few things:
pants and underwear on the floor;
pens (which won't be used any more);
a toothbrush on the corner of the sink;
and an old picture of her's
which hangs hollow on the wall.

Now thoughts whirl around like
a dervish of misgivings:
if only I lied through my teeth
for the duration of a call.

She lies, softly snoring,
on my chest.
I know she doesn't mean
to lead me on.

We met a month ago,
when we both climbed
on top a roof,
to gaze at the moon.

We shared of few tales
of too many trips gone astray
and laughed at the people
through the sky-light

unaware of the pair
sitting cross-legged
just above their heads --
just above their heads.

We were made of different
stuff than those people
below us; that night
we weren't even human.

But days follow nights
and whispered words
rarely amount to truth.

She lies like everyone before her:
afraid to hurt the people she loves.