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eighth, mar looking through this old blond woman's wallet she forgot in a rush on a table at my cafe, trying to find clues to track her down - playing detective - taking my mind off the sad songs, you know, doing the right thing. packed beneath stolen hotel keys and travel brochures, i extract an envelope stained with age and discover within a flattened lock of hair. i "EW" out loud, customers looking at me, unsure of the food i'm handling at the same time... i like you, you're accessible, i don't, you're this rich ass art snob who brings out the chain smoking in me and jumps on my curiosity as a chance to talk more until i'm drunk enough to want to kiss you. i sit on your modern furniture while you act like you got it so rough. you lay your head next to me in attempts to crack this wall i built after meeting the other half of your open relationship that you recently revealed to me. but i sit straight and it's dead quiet - you can't hear the sad songs in my head, only my foot tapping in time to them. you don't know what to do. i sort of get off on that. you ask me if i want to go home. "yeah," i say. |