We made chicken fettuccine alfredo.
I don't really know what food has to do
with death, but
we made chicken fettuccine alfredo.

You spoke of stars,
of incomprehensible numbers.
Of the world, so big,
with people so small.
And I joined in,
laying a perfect descant
above a lustful melody.
We laughed bitterly
about Fate's clichéd cruelty,
you with your
partner
and me with my
plane ticket.
But our laughs complemented each other
flawlessly,
and when my flitting treble
was joined by your playful bass,
the world grew understanding
and I could breathe
a sigh
of relief.

Ocean's surface showed only
tragedy's timing,
but to ourselves we allowed
a sweet smile,
a secret.
Surely Fate,
though Heartache's mistress,
would reform her ways.
Just for us.
For two who never knew they were only
puzzle pieces
until they found
how supernaturally they fit.
Behind our worried eyes
we kept silent the thought
neither of us
truly doubted– that
we
would be Fate's
exception.

And Fate giggled
in the dark, daring us
to try to defy her,
waiting for the opportunity
to prove us wrong.
And with our feet in the sand,
our eyes to the sea,
we heard her
cold mirth,
an empty soprano
brought in with the waves.
Scared, we left.
Gave up beaches for concrete.
Hand in hand, until the memory
of Fate
invaded clumsily. And,
not wanting to anger her,
we refused her
the opportunity
by
never
trying
to defy.

Air murky with the stale smell
of ****, we sit
on the couch, both mute.
I drape my arms across my belly,
pinching my Victorino jersey
nervously,
convincing myself
I'm having fun.

He lounges with the remote
in one hand,
our dying joint in the other.
There is something on TV.
I don't know what, I just

force myself to laugh intermittently,
while he sits back, looking
relaxed, even bored.
(I convince myself
I'm having fun.)
An abrupt commercial break, and suddenly,
an ad.
For what?
I squint. Flashes of
water, boats, and
what might be heroics,
but time has slowed, and I
can only focus

for a few seconds of lucidity,
the sheer volume of information
overwhelming.
(I convince myself
I'm having fun.)
A narrator's voice, and I understand
the ad is for the navy.
What I should have learned is that
it's a "bright career path"
for the "intelligent, determined, hard-working"
individual.
Cute.

He brings rolled paper to his lips
and pulls.
A sideways glance and
a restrained voice–
"I could have done that,"
the muffled words rush out,
as he waits to exhale.

I think that I could starve
in a ****** apartment,
just the roaches
and me,
and be happy,
if I only had more
to say.

The time will
present itself
when I should want to keep my head.
When my stomach should be calm
instead of gently churning.
When my tongue
should bend and twist and tut
at my command, instead
of swelling uselessly.
When my feet should follow
one before the other
in a seemingly well-rehearsed
line instead of lazily
trudging helter-skelter.
The time will
present itself
when more problems than
solutions fill this wine glass
to the brim, and my mind
will wail for lucidity.

But that sensual time
is not tonight.

waking up in the hospital
with an IV in one arm,
and the reappearance of
a sad long island
iced tea
dripping down the other,
with an eight hundred dollar
bill to pay
from a hundred dollar a week
pay check–
and you realize
you are not
where you thought
you'd be.

The teapot whines.
It has done its job, water now
struggling to escape,
a few lucky molecules joining air-born brethren–
and now it begs for the release
of its agitated contents.

And I am thirsty.

The fire dies.
With a turn of my wrist, the burner
is granted repose,
the contented sigh of the *** speaking for the pair–
happy to be of use
but eager to relax.

And I am ready.

The teabag waits.
Its tail hanging free, it slouches
lazily against ceramic,
the bag of herbs finding home in a mug–
ready for the heat
and its life's fulfillment.

And I am pouring.

The water steeps.
As steam swirls the mug, herbs
release their subtlety,
earth and fruit and the lethargy of chamomile–
a bath of comfort,
the smell of memory.

And I am calmed.