I paid for the two coffees and brought them back to the table, swear they chinkled in my hands like the music in my teeth jouncing around when I see you. You wrote letters in your bright notebook and as I sipped you asked me to discover them. High task. Could barely read your cursive boughs and sinewy slippery esses, slip slip sliding off the page as you smiled with a pixieish shrug—see, can’t do it. But I sipped a little more deliberately, slitted my eyes back to you, wrote you some mischief on a napkin and you laughed. It was buoyant and I floated for a second above the wooden bench, sustained by other voices like cushions of marzipan I could dip in your coffee and you would love it.
And back then you were really in front of me, I should have limned your lines and ridges onto your notebook, just to show you. Should have taken out my camera in a way you wouldn’t have seen and taken a picture of those eyes, the way you looked right there, right then. Maybe you’d have seen mine being created then—suddenly rushing, flushing blood to a created thing, made out of thin air, substantive. Seen how you gave me my flesh, how you made me an unknown drinker of all life’s subtle blessings, peacefully, even while within the mist of its peaceless ecstasy and fury.