A crack on Valentines Day

I met you at a diner in April

It was scrambled eggs and you were at the counter with the guys wearing the working canvas Dickie jackets speaking of a wry muffler and your coffee was black. You spoke to me as I sat down …ah …saving my place it was, and yes I took it. Your tip was large and I stared after you left at your number. You write like you.

You spread your legs. I did not ask, but you did. Saving my place it was, and yes, I took it. It became a favorite place, my addiction. I would shoot you up on a Sunday morning with the paper. My daily dose, my valium. Franklins walked and we did not care. Your thong got lost under the bed.

That gasp when I yank your hair, I hear it at the oddest times. You have made me forget tomorrow, leaving the bed a mess. I often wonder where I walked off to, and still I am here. A metamorphosis at your suggestion which, if I thought about it yesterday, I would have said no, haunted by nostalgic haunts, but, only for that moment, my addiction. I taste you while I scramble eggs.

There is a crack in the wall. I see it every day wondering. The music beats and I know that the walls vibrate. Tinkering in the bathroom. Maybe the place is settling; whatever. I did not see when it started and without tomorrow it will be another song.