Flowing footsteps from skytrain to street
Trying to stay calm, but I'm so excited to meet
You, here, under the changing glow
Of signs, of places, hoping we slow our
Pace and enter. But we are in search
Of another establishment, on the whim
Of a word, a nudge in the right direction.
The winds blow us into the red glow
Of ambiance, of elegance, the right selection
Portobello perfection, Mezcal gin,
Beautiful soul sitting close with a grin,
We can't help but laugh "this is how you win!"

Foggy to recall the way that we went
Home on the bus, or the money we spent.
None of that matters much when you are lost
In the depth of another being, intriguing
To find kin where you are not used to seeing them.
Laughing up the stairs in the corridor,
Knowing in this moment, this is your life,
It is beautiful, you are not needing more.
Both of us feeling this as we reach the door,
"Welcome to Buzzer 2" let's see what's in store.

Waking up cuddling, always a delight.
So much accomplished already, but you might
Have to run out quickly and buy some beans
For the bullet coffee that will be our means
Of mobilization, into the street,
Rubber soles on our feet, ready to meet
The pavement outside which will guide
Our path from delicious morning smoothie
Over bridges, through the downtown core,
Both realizing we would make a great movie
If film could ever capture the way that we soar.

Hats tilted slightly sideways, we even get work done.
Painting quickly so we may continue our run,
Over the Granville bridge, lilac in the air.
And there is no hiding the way that you stare
At my ***, and the mountains, a beauty so fair.

Rangoli's is next, fine dining, the best chai!
Decadently treated to Portobello twice.
Sweaty in our running gear, we are here
Trying to avoid timestamped bills and clock chimes
But you give me your best guess, lately spot on!
I glance at the sun to figure how much day is gone.
Even though there are so many moments left
To unravel, I embody the feelings - being
Ever present to crystallize the memory of our travels.

We turn towards the sinking sun, and I run
My fingers through windblown lion-locks.
Basking in the energy we emanate, we stun
Onlookers with our badassery and good looks.

Granville island is next on the docket
Searching for elusive sumac, in the spice shop
It is tucked away on a shelf, among rarities.
You light up at the till, and guarantee
The next place we head to is going to be
The crown of the afternoon - The Distillery

In shorts and tanks we stroll in with class,
Walk up to the bar and order a glass
Of the finest and most signature gin,
But just a taste, not enough to make the head spin.
A nectar so pure, so incredibly smooth
We continue our stroll, we continue to lose
Sight of places you were expected to be,
Apparently easy to do when you hang out with me.

Crossing under the bridge, sunset rays shine
Through the city canopy, it is nearly time
For the moon to transition us into the night,
But I pull you aside for a moment, while its still light
And kiss you with passion, with fever, with might.
That gin in the afternoon has increased our delight.

And it's not over yet, we play for a while.
Horsing around at the bus stop, we smile
And pose on the blue wall, gangster-style.
Moments in snapshots, spirit of the child
Creating our reality, embracing our WILD.

I am a true lover
& come from a long line
of traditionalists,
believers of the leaf-faith.

I live in their spirit
day & night,
from Yunnan
where the gold is harvested,
down to Kenya I travel,
then to Sri Lankan rainforests,
to sip the Sinharaja black brew.

I visit the czars with Kusmi,
stay with Earl Grey a bit
on those misty eves
& on some chilly days,
I relish a nice
mysterious Chai with spice.

O yes, you dear fellow imbibers,
try some Golden Monkey
& a hit of Lapsang Souchong,
PG Tips & a hot cup of Sencha Uji.
It'll certainly hit the spot,
tonight.

And at the rising
of the morning star,
tomorrow,
gently down Red Moon.

As I got up on a chilly morning,
Scraping my eyes – hankering to sleep more,
I looked through the window-pane,
To find rain drops fall again !!

Some drops went tumbling on the ground,
And making puddles all around !!
The rain was falling down in sheets,
Spellbound and hypnotized, my heart skipped beats !!

Wind was misted up with cold air,
And a hot cup of sheer chai (kashmiri tea) was waiting near !!
Before I could take in a little sip,
And touch the cup to my bottom lip…
Shucks ~ The honking vehicle shattered it all,
To find that there was no rainfall !!

(And I woke up to the reality – sunny day outside, finding myself sweating in Mysore NOT treating myself to my favorite Kashmiri Tea !!!)

The scent of your cologne and incense
always linger behind,
Attaching themselves to me in a cruel reminder
Of just how much I love the smell that is you.
Deep and woody,
It brings memories of fireplaces,
Winter nights,
And spiced chai.
Ski lodges,
Knit hats,
And gloved hands two sizes bigger,
Still holding on for dear life.
Cuddling under hand-made blankets
Sharing laughs,
Secrets,
Kisses.
Even if I don't have you I will always have your scent,
And the places it takes me are better than the places I have been.

I saw a Bengal tiger
in Eureka, California
Sadly, they had not “found it.”
In a place kept afloat by something ephemeral as ***** smoke
A cage, not more than twenty feet long
by twelve feet wide
Held power in check
But a few steps away
He or she
they did not say
played with a round pillow in front of us
crushed it with a mighty paw
like one of our skulls might be
If we came upon her
a frightened ape
in the steaming green jungles
of the part of the world
Where Kolkata rests
on Kali’s Ghat
The city of creative Destruction
Where millions eat
sleep and **** in polluted air
and brush their teeth with their fingers
at the gushing water
of a communal fountain
Where milky sweet chai
in a small clay cup
costs two cents
provided with a smile
and allows the man to turn a profit
In a way, I understand why we did it.
It is great to see such a grand thing so close
Orange fur and black stripes
beauty clothing strength
And the fear of it.
Without metal bars
vertical iron rods of power
I would be nothing but a warm
squishy snack
My head as useless as a coconut
Skull only a shell for the meat inside
My legs, fast as they are,
Would amount to only drumsticks
Yet is it not best
to leave such powerful beauty be?
It is a great arrogance that chains
such a powerful thing
For the benefit of ****** poets,
old couples, and howling children
Selling the soul of a wild beast
Second by second
glimpse by glimpse
for the price
of a fairground ticket.

Placed in plain sight as a place for curious eyes to rest
Lying upon the mantle was a single picture
Each day, the dust surrounding it seemed to swell,
And further shrouded the frame's crack
Shards of glass still fell from time to time
Each landing in its own bed of dust

To himself, he muttered that he should dust
Each time the phantom passed it to rest
And as always, he did not have the time
Claiming that in his mind there was a perfect picture
Heavy footsteps gave him away as the floor started to crack
Memories overcame and caused his heart to swell

Even then he wondered why he painted her so swell
How could he adore the one that blew his dreams to dust
Over the phone, he tried to answer, but his voice did often crack
When he tried to reproduce what he had with the rest
Too many times he had tried to create the same picture
Of what he once had, but in a different time

Finally he decided that he could waste no more time
Each day for a week he paddled over swell after swell
Each day for a week he could not jettison this faded picture
Lines blurred as tears mixed with paint and dust
Each obscuring line brought his soul more rest
Violently he hurled the picture, hoping he didn't crack

Each lonely moment inspired him to give it one more crack
Realizing that in this world, he only had so much time
Young love sank with the picture, and on the ocean floor it would rest
To move forward, all of his courage he had to swell
He put behind him the times of darkness, phantoms, and dust
In the days that passed he learned how to paint his own picture

Now more faces pass the mantle than he could ever picture
“Good thing you removed that horrid painting” they crack
“You finally took the time to clean up and dust”
“One day you will admit that we were right this time”
“Until I saw her today I thought my heart would never again swell”
“Friend is the best word for someone that makes you forget the rest”

Each day he tells himself he needs a little more time
Every smiling glance she gives makes him feel so swell
Letter one of each line will tell you the rest.

mossy rocks and harbours /
freshly cut grass and ant hills in the cracks of pavement /
the way my mom dressed in the 90's /
the taste of whiskey and the smell of wet wood /
a couple on a beach and a low tide /
spilling beer on clean satin /
of breakups, suicide, and cheap wine /
running from problems, never escaping and muddy shoes /
chai tea and petrichor /
a room, an open window and oversized white curtains and a breeze /
escaping writers block and tears, smiles, blood, and 100 poems /
drinking alone, a bar and a book, small talk, and silence /
searching and finding, lion's teeth and yellow-stained skin /

My hair smells like you--
Old Spice and popcorn smudged
lips.  Hold the butter.
I want grease dripping
from your palms, a salt
sea of foamy yellow.  We
reject kernels bob along
unpopped, burnt, steamed to bursting
refused the right to blossom.

The neighbors have a noisy truck
spitting exhaust onto my rear
window. Gray. Hazy. Ugly
as the reason you're covered
in glitter.  You taste like gin
and ginger, orange tea and cold
chai latte, notebook paper
in a dark coffeehouse.
The elves are holding hands
but your hand is on my *** and
this movie's boring--wood
pannelling in a split-level apartment
above your father's bathtub.

Your mother wouldn't like me.
She's a ***** anyway.  You tell me
she can't cook because she can't
subtract.  But you're no good
at math either, lovely boy. Double
your handprints on my ***.
Curl your toes to the three-four swirl of my hips.

Aaj sar par humare kam hai baal,
Par janab aisa hai haal,
Subah subah ki adrak waali chai,
Ek duje ko dekh hum muskai...

Thodi gaadi hai dheeme chalti,
Chaalis mein nahi woh furti,
Khaana ** na ** garam,
Par bhagwaan biwi rahein naram...

Na koi demand, na koi expectation,
Na koi command, na koi explanation,
Na koi ek dusre ke liye expression,
Aur life mein no irritation...
hum din shaanti se gujaare,
Bas yahin hai celebration...

Woh tumhara mere gussa hone par chuppi rakhna,
Woh na chahate hue bhi haath dho lena,
Woh tumhare liye aaloo ka parathe banana,
Aur raat mein jamkar taane dena..

Aur janab inn taano mein aisi kick hai,
Bina peg lagaye besud ** jayein,
Yeh pyaar ka naya silsilla hai,
Aur isimein dil rama hai...

we're god's babies.
tonight
i'm saying

god?

it's me again
with more pain.

god.

gives me a cup of chai
faces me
waits

Nat Lipstadt
Mar 10
Pradip
Dear Sir,

I can't keep
up with
your prolific, delighting,
creations

This must be
the third poem at least,
for and to you, I,
publicly address

the thought terrifying,
if you took a vacation,
and had really
some free time to write

I do believe man,
it's time for a unique,
reserved, deserved,
and as of yet,
unheard of
special,
Hello Pradip Section
on this site

for this is yet one more
in a streaming video poem,
of me acknowledging you,
Master of the Word,
Wright Templar,
Poet Extraordinaire,

Most Importantly,
Beloved Human,
whose vision sees the world
in ways that
I adore

S. suggests,
I
take a vaca
just to eat your words,
in the lazy, rushed fashion
they deserve

but tween us,
your secret kept,
your parrot and
street dog Hengloo
write
every other one,
cause no human could
thus excel,
without some help
of animal spirits
in between your beloved
Saturdays

Yours Devotedly,

An Exhausted and Admiring,
Nat Lipstadt

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nat Lipstadt
Sep 2, 2013

Pradip Chattopadhyay


Simple verses,
blessed be the uncomplex,
But the visions, the glimpses,
The sightings, in and out,
Are celestial of, in, and on and about
This planet shared.

I will walk with you to
Henry's Isle,
You, accompany me, on the beach,
We will together ford Crab Creek,
When the tide is low,
And afterwards,
Repair to The  Poet's Nook,
Where a moss stained Adirondack chair
Awaits the Poet Prince,
Your poems carved into
It's soul, it's arms, it's back,
Giving comfort continuous.

This chai, this chair, this throne,
Reserved for the lyricist of our lives,
The shedder of light upon the special,
The seconds, that fete our senses.

I await you arrival.

Tender this serenade,
this overdue apology,
For having not thanked you properly
For your living kindness,
Yet my words, insufficient, compared to yours...


A special man, a simple homage.

apple plus chai tea
hot liquid relaxes nerves
the stress disappears

the smell of coffee
peacefulness and happiness
reminders of home

stick around for hours
keep calm and drink some coffee
thinking satisfied

I wish I could hold
your hand,
but instead, I am
forced to cling to
the pale orange glow of
a dying
candle, and watch
as memories
fall
between
my fingertips.

You spend the night
sipping chai tea
in front of
our bubbling fireplace,
while I gather my patch-
work romanticism,
frame our
futures, then tuck them
into the ashes.

I’ll leave by morning,
while you snore
quietly. I’ll step
into
brown leather boots,
as the gray dawn
makes me catch
my breath.

But the wax will
drip, will
tickle the legs
of your antique
coffee table,
and you’ll
miss me.

There's nothing like it
so early
on a cold winter's morn,
born in fields so far away
& brewed perfectly,
just the right temperature,
a release of blended spices,
invigorating,
so soothing
it goes down nicely,
warming the inner spirit.

I even licked the drops
that rolled
slowly down the sides
of my empty warm cup
wondering about you,
what you like,
your own cup of tea.

Home was
the sound of the djembe
As the beat of the cowbells
Joins the grooving melody
Filling the world
Black girl braids
Flying
And jiving
Feet bouncing and flouncing
Create a music of their own

Home was
the timbre of the chop saw
As the purr of the transformers
Joined by the flare of the drill
Screamo blares
Loving
And teasing
Voices filling up the room
The family dinner song

Home was
The Bumble bee tuna
As sung by tone deaf voices
And endless refrains
Fill in the void
That was never open
A harmony
And chorus
Of Wandering pitches

Home was
The aroma of a chai latte
As fresh air hit our faces
Joining the snickerdoodle scent
a lunchtime escapade
music blaring
heat blasting
laughs trilling


(Stanza Break)
Home was
The feeling of love
As you walk into your family
Join those you
love
those you
cherish
and feel
safe

hehehe
tumble roll
roll a joint and
pack my bowl and I've got
a bit of mental lag so it's a
little hard to pack my bag 'cause
I'm a little fried maybe a little
charred even, totally
baked, I'm a cake frosted
but I haven't lost it,
Sometimes I'm a little confused
but I'm still baking!
whole wheat **** infused
chai tea orange zest cookies
yummy sativa,
a dash of indica but
whoa!
mmm they're
dangerously delicious
and one, two, three,
oops! that's four and
one more, they're just
so good! if only I could
stop!
but yummm
sat nammmnomnom

Like drinking water out of mason jars
Like reading through fake plastic glass
Like dressing in your grandparents bolts of fabric
Like holding an unfiltered cigarette
Or even better a wooden pipe…
Smoke swelling in closed mouths
And nostrils blowing in sailboat clouds
Down to the next not- Starbucks
To sit on a velvet couch with
Coral painted nails and a chai in hand...
You all can be like this.
With no workout clothes and
With at least two piercings in your nose
You all are like this soon enough.
Who gave you the idea to pick up the
Ukulele anyway?
Who gave you the idea to shave one quarter
Of your head?

We all did. We all are a
Fleet of individual sameness,
A want to stand out from the
Cookie- cutter looks,
But now we’re all cupcakes
With the same story but with
Different hooks
For hands, snagging the rest
Of us along.
With your identical twin lipstick
And Birkenstock feet.
The lack of shock we absorb
Gets lonely and depressing.
So lets all move to Montreal
And French kiss and knit
And maybe real soon the
Croissants will go stale
And it’ll be cool to live
In Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan.

Everybody's in a tea-mood these days.
At the moment,
I prefer Chai,
but the greens are still my favorites.
I love white monkey
& silver rain
in my pottery cup.
There's nothing
like a warm demitasse
& the comfort
of spinning
a prayer wheel,
watching the flags
fluttering at base camp
below Heaven
with my good friends.

it's valentines day
and there's this boy

he's got blue eyes
wears olive green
and this monogrammed
color pooled scarf in
red heart mexicana
that his grandma knit

(i'm also wearing olive
green with denim and
lace -- a skirt?? but
diggity **** he's looking!
i picked this outfit not
knowing it was the precise
shade of green made for
storming beaches on v-day)

i've been making his
espresso since last august
but today he came around
the back of the counter
to make it and chat so
i gave him some pie

...pie
many successful
relationships have
started with pie

(mental note: 2/14/17, 11:30
underbaked coconut custard)

it might be the 8oz
***** chai with
three shots espresso
making my stomach
flitter or it might be
him not the oven

that's got my cheeks
spotted with lightly
browned freckles and
cinnamon flavored blush

(he's a cook
i'm a baker
doesn't that
work somehow?)

***** it
now i've got a
heart shaped
pink polka dotted
sugary royal icing
cookie cutter crush.

stony feet,
traipsed the streets
of Nepal--
home of homes.
my hearts is
encrusted
in the Himalayas.
misted mornings
with a cup of
hot chai
free my soul.
one day I know
I will return
to my home.
until then, I'm
stuck dreaming
and reminiscing
about the past
days. one day
i'll find my
heart again.

I never told you I would leave.
Us;
In an airplane over Russia;
Our feet slipping into skates too small;
Sipping a distinctive type of chai.
You know me too familiar.
When I shiver, so do you.
We speak in our own language,
One in which the light bends
From your sapphire eyes;
One in which we are twins.
We burn together.

in summer.
To be free.

<I love you in every transatlantic mile.>

The Vanilla Bean Frappuccino,
who brings chills down my spine every time.
Sweet on the inside, cold-hearted on the outside,
Especially when he leaves me high and dry
in the morning unexpectedly.
He’ll remind me that I’m alive,
And make me feel Zen for a split second,
Then he splits in a second.
Or
The Caramel Macchiato,
Tall with a sophisticated smile
And unrealistically hazel eyes
That read “bello” around his irises.
With a shot of expression—
He’s never afraid to speak how he feels.
But that’s just the Italian in him.
Or
The Pumpkin Spice Latte,
The most popular guy.
He’ll warm me up when I’m cold;
And make me feel like I’m his only one,
He’ll tell me everything I want to hear,
Then he’ll disappear without a sign—
At least until the next year,
Only to continue the same cycle over again.
Or
The Cappuccino,
He’s got a strong mind
like those French roast blends
With a secret soft side.
He speaks with fluidity and is
As charismatic as the rest.
He’s a morning person nonetheless,
And won’t leave me loveless
In the sheets like Mr. Vanilla Bean sometimes does.
Or
The Teavana Chai Tea Latte
He sounds fancy, does he not?
He’s different to say the least,
Layered with many spices,
And from cinnamon trees,
He’s warm-hearted, yet feisty.
Gentle, yet fatuously energetic.
Soft spoken, yet bold,
He doesn’t have to do much
To have me sold to his trance.

Now for me to decide what I want
As more people file in, deliberating the same
Line up as I, but they have more to
Choose from.
Perhaps I should loosen up some, and go
With last one.

If I had to fall in love I would fall
right into those dimples
and the soft hair that ruffles slightly
When you shoot me one of those
awkward smiles, shy to meet my hazelnut
eyes with your green hues.

I smelled love. Between Chai and coffee.
Brewing like the hot chocolate with cream
that stained your upper lip.
Your shyness, trying to avoid my gaze, but
your eyes lit up.

Blonde hair, creamy skin. Me like an opened
bottle of fizz, bubbly with joy, while you
shy and laughed along
held out your arm to me
so you could keep me safe.

Slow, gentle,sweeter than life.
You were not what I expected at all.
Not my type. Not the flashy kind.
But we ordered
the same drink at the same bar.

Vanity
made me numb for a while, I
mistaken my lust and ambition for love.
The men before you were as vain
as the price tag on my
red heel Louboutins.

But
You
didn't know did you?
Blue cashmere. Jeans and a gold watch.
You made a
sinner change her ways
you made a
Casanova believe in love again.

I'm loving this rain.
Listening to it hit the tin roof of this wooden jungle home,
dreaming of the little grey island back home,
The familiar sleepy feeling found in all rain,
feeling it cast over houses,
dreaming of a scene where I am thinking
whether to put another log in the fire and snuggle back into bed beside a man,
a man I love
with three days of stubble on his face
And to just lie thinking about things.
Or whether to start a *** of coffee
or just keep sleeping until the sounds of silence,
of finished showers,
awake us.
I lie dreaming
of family,
of chickens and kindling, of sweet angel children
soflty sleeping with baby hands in little fists
and resting under little quilts.
I dream of witch hazel, good soap,
and claw foot baths,
of lush mossy rocks and strong red cedar, of rich abundent apple trees,
they too sleeping in the rain,
black gumboots and puddle green fields,
of forest walks, warm eggs and organic chai tea,
I dream
of the ocean in the rain,
or the city in the rain,
all the different umbrellas.
Everywhere cast under Mama Earths spells of comfort,
of big yawn sleepiness
that follows a morning like this.
Oh my,
oh me,
if I didn't have chores
I could lie forever like this.

Have you known the winter days?
Late February falls like frigid snow
Merciless undertow
Of evergreen and alpenglow
And grey ground pavement walking
Like Grocery shopping
and weak chai tea
Moonlengths from all family
And surrounded like strawbury temptation,
Late night lamp light contemplation
And drowsy-dampened mornings
Grey glaze of diluted boring
Spattered over every orifice
Charcoal eyes, platonic kiss.
Pull your bow to shoot and miss
Tell me all this is is what it is
And I will tell you, “okay”
(but you know this isn’t what I wanted)

Hide the roadsigns
Blur the guidelines
This is how I love you

Have you known the winter days?
Late February fell like fire on hell
And shook me from my sleep
Ashes cover snow-banked heaps of rubble
I slice my wrist on the sharpened stubble
Of your half-assed beard
(this is how I bleed my dear)
This is how I bear my soul
******* smile
And dominoes
Carnation cults
And buried bones
(This is how I build your throne)

Hide the gravestones
Burn the rainbows
This is how I love you.

And have you known the winter days?
Late February fallen like Lucifer to the underworld
We both knew I wasn’t altogether that typeof girl
But we pretended anyways
Alcoholic halo haze
And foreign intervention
Of somewhat insidious intention
And the legitimate logistical question
That defined our discourse on fear
(this is how I think my dear)
This is how I speak my mind
All that grey
Those missing roadsigns
Smoke and soot and
Blurry guidelines
And Gravestones gone
And rainbows ash
(and we are never coming back)

This.
This is how I love you.

Soft s
Hard z
Warring names
Like warring nations
Soldiers in and out of filled
Train stations.

Letters March
Up and down
Filling pages of
Notebooks bought brown
Math was a bite and a bore
English is her light and her lore

She never wrote love stories out loud
Because a twice uttered spell could cause her to drown
Deep in a sea of serpentine slopes
That the people called  loves, dreams and hopes

But she did color with her mind
A clouded sky
Steeped full of orange and pink painted chai
The cup was bitter but sweet
A chance for two lovers to meet
Select all; delete
Now he is gone before she could sleep

Slumber is simple
Unless you are on watch
Watching your watch for another
To stand notching his clock
Never Relieved of duty
her names never ceased fire
The letters are looting
Abased of greed they get their fill
Filled full of slumber and pills

In tea shops your skin is like cinnamon
sprinkled over chai,
every separate part of you.

Your kisses are a leaving.

Rain pelts pedestrians,
the sky is falling.

At breakfast you crack an egg for a smile
and the yolky richness unfurls on the pink of your
rosebud tongue.

We pass old women hunched over,
their eyes are a starving.

******* bags rot,
we’ve always made waste.

In bed your eyes are a frozen lagoon
flecked with clouds of grey.

I wade you to the ocean.

You call me the bed bug, patient insect
as you hunt down pizza
and gather strepsils for my cold.

How far are we from the cave?

I roll in the duvet.

Dear Talia,


I found you.

Have you ever lain in your bed, after a night of restlessness and tears that tessellate on your face as you dream of a new place where crying isn't a thing, and where beautiful girls in dark dresses and black Keds are?

Have you ever looked at the stars and say to yourself, "Wow, some of these are dead, but the person I could love, and who could love me, may be looking at them and is still alive?"

When in our darkest places, when the hurt can't escape our bodies, when we think we'll never recover, have you ever thought of a person that you don't know yet, but you know that they're part of the answer? I think you're the person I've been thinking about.

Do you want to be my Alexa Chung?

Do you want to be the soft song in my room, as we slow dance on a carpet covered in removed clothes and removed fear?

Can I be the one to show you how you could save lives with your presence and that your presence is a present?

Can I be yours?

I want to wipe off the lipstick on your lips with my lips. I want to paint my face with your mauve and laugh about it in bed, over a bowl of ice cream and teeth showing as we smile. You're a nice dream. You're the only dream I have right now.

If I die, I want you to know that you are one the most beautiful people I've ever encountered.

"I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," were my first eloquent words to you as we trudged out of Cerbone's, and pushed double doors that opened the opportunity of ourselves to one another.

When I think about it, I could have said something a little less Sid Vicious-esque than, "I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," but you can be my Nancy Spungen, sans stabbing you in the stomach. I'd rather you be my Alexa Chung, though. Plus, Nancy Spungen was kind of *****, inside and out, and you're cleaner than a rain-kissed afternoon.  

Is this weird? I'm writing a letter to someone that I spent five and a half hours with in a cafe. Then again, I think it may be warranted.

We left his classroom and avoided bumping into each other until we were at The Daily Grind. You were beside me, attached to my hip, or was I attached to yours? Your hair is dark and has a quasi-bronze streak in one part. It's unique, like parental guidance. I think your eyes could break hearts and fix spider-webbed windshields after a collision with, "Are you okay," and, "I'm fine; I'm not going anywhere."

I find it unusual that whenever I was walking with you, that I felt calm. I haven't felt that way in a long time, when walking with someone. Then again, I've only been walking with my shadow, as of late. Usually, my nerves seep out of my pores and my hair spins in my scalp, as I breathe heavily and think about long ways to say goodbye and quick ways to die. But with you, the ocean softens the shore inside.  

Entering through the weathered door of The Daily Grind, you were still there. Ryan was there, but he doesn't know who I am. To be fair, no one really knows me. It's mutual, but I only know of him because of his questionable but interesting opinions. Actually, his opinions aren't that interesting, I just think his confidence is interesting. He reminds me of a bee stinging someone and confidently allowing the lower half of his body to be ripped out, as he bleeds out with insides hanging like cooked spaghetti noodles, with wings sputtering, as he talks about Bad Faith, with a smile on his face. Wow, that was a run-on sentence. That was the type of run-on sentence you could lose faith over.

I'm afraid that you may think that the way I perceive the world is weird. It's okay, though. I think I annoy my friends whenever I tell them about my problems, so I don't want to do that to you. I only tell them about a quarter of my problems, but you're the type of person I could tell everything to. It's not their faults, though. They have their own issues and lives to handle, as do you. I'd hate to be the cut in your mouth.

You ordered a ***** chai, I believe it's called. You're a regular. I'm only a regular to lonely nights. People know you and love you. I can see why, and I'm glad they do. You're the type of person that inspires books and to be yours would to be everything.

I ordered a Sierra Mist, because I'm about as cool as a pyromaniac's paradise. I like your eyebrows and your voice. We swept each other to a table by the window.

Your eyes are green. Your hair is black. And after meeting you, there's no turning back.

We were supposed to study, but I didn't come there to learn about Sartre. Existentialism did come into play as I tried to figure out if you could add purpose to my life. You did.

I think you were a little surprised that I didn't want to study, and I think you were even more surprised when I wanted to talk about you.

My God, Talia, I don't think you're aware of how beautiful you are.

We spoke for five hours and thirty minutes. I thought it'd only last half an hour. We bled ideas, stories, and questions. You told me the story about yourself. That was my favorite story.

After these five and a half hours, I had to go to therapy. You said it was four. This was the second or third time you checked your phone in almost six hours; I was flattered that I had your attention. The first time, out of probable nervousness, and the second time whenever your friend came in to talk to you.

I wanted to say so much more to you, but I bit my lip so I wouldn't and so my jaw wouldn't drop.

When you said it was four, I was sad. I didn't want to leave you, or for you to leave me.

Do blood and thoughts hold a race whenever we're afraid of losing someone?

We walked out of the cafe, and found the sidewalk. As we walked, I was wondering what was next. I didn't know what you'd think of my having a therapist. I'm not crazy, just scared.

I should have held your hand.

When we arrived to our destination, the lair, I told you that I had a therapist and an appointment. I asked you if you wanted to sit with me in the lobby. You said yes. I felt the words, "Thank you."

I don't think the elevator we stood in was big enough for our hearts, and I'd like to think that love seat was our sanctuary. You looked at me and understood, as we talked about our childhoods, our mothers, my father, and our worlds.

I wanted to kiss eternity into you.

My therapist came out, and I said bye. I got up, quickly. I would have said goodbye slower, but my heart was too fast. I'm supposed to see you tomorrow, so I can work on my goodbye.

If I die, I want you to know that you've given me the greatest six hours I could have asked for.

You deserve to be happy and I hope that you are, no matter with who. Despite all of that, I feel like you and I are supposed to happen.

I wrote a poem whenever I got home:

Move your hands with mine.
You're the current of the ocean.
I whisper your name, and I'm not afraid.
You are my emotion.

It's you, isn't it?


I want to be yours,

Josh

i read poetry in the morning
with chai, stains awoken
and i’d like to believe
i can remember at least one hundredth
of the photomemoirs i’ll make
walking home from science class today;
because that walk is all my heart sees
and my brain knows not
to see things how i would write them -  
.
then i noted the monarch butterflies
dancing to the tunes of their
pheromonic wingharp love unknown,
swiftly along colorful breezes;
when i walked home,
and then i felt this strange feeling -
there is too, a beauty in being alone