Proust turned to Hemingway as her feet dangled off the ledge, playing hide and seek with the setting sun
What shall we do tonight?
Wander the streets as vagabonds,
Cursing the bottle as it makes love to the tongue?
Or shall we be a reckless symphony?
Truest tones found only in short breaths,
Tainted with sinless pleasure?
One in the same as smoke curls the lip.
Shall we always be friends as this?
While you smell of ***, yes,
Or until I finish this paragraph.
Would you like me to read it to you?
Must you always speak in riddles?
If only to keep the thieves at bay,
For doctors know nothing of riddles.
You are no doctor, my friend,
For though I worship no idol,
Religion binds me to you.
As I am your god, you are my teacher,
For no one understands me quite like you.
Is that not what the alligator said to the turtle?
I think you’ve read the wrong version, my dear.
The alligator safely takes the turtle to shore,
And they grow old together in the humid afternoon sun.
Your mind is filled with the optimism your privileges have allowed;
Whereas the turtle never stood a chance.
Your doubt is lost on me,
But just as Proust has made me ironic,
Words will bring me back to you.
Shall I follow you, then, if you stray?
And ruin the cat’s game before its begun?
I heard the mouse goes blind in the end.
Then lets never find the hole in the decaying wall,
Until youth betrays our mind and perjury is revealed.
Is it truly perjury if we always knew it,
Both halves of the mind working tirelessly to keep it?
To reserve each word for tomorrow,
If only to keep eternity from death?
Must you always speak in riddles?
And he turned back to his book, as her thoughts lit the streetlights one by one.