What Would Kettle Do?

I know you don’t believe me when i say you are the only one. this couldn’t be my first cigarette, my first four seasons suite, my first love. You believe that i lie when i look into you eyes, when i hold you. you believe this happens every day.

or do you just say that?

could my arms be yours? my breath for you? when i ramble on about every word you ever said to me, every moment between this kiss and the first one there ever was, am i lying still?

i stare at you over room service, “would you like to try some of my blood-orange pound cake french toast with whipped cream and straw-berries johnny?” you ask as you reach a perfect layer on my tongue with your fork.

the sun shines through our window and glimmers the coffee pot for me tea for you.

am i lying still?

the sun peering over the statues on the building east of market, folding over napkin linen, tapping fingers, toss-ed sheets?

could i deny you a sip of iced water, a smear of iceing, a taste of juice? this feast, this morning, is it not all for you?

you blink and look to the left, your tongue pressed to the right so lightly. your lashes taunt me.

you are like a photograph, a painting, a potrait.

this really is my first time. i have never know anything like this. anyone like you.

am i lying still?

I think i may have been here before.

looking at you sitting there, so close to him, fading between smile and tossed expression as if falling in and out of love with every word.

your elegant fingers rolling over your glass.

this place around us was so ugly and boring.

the contrast was intoxicating…chamagne and gasoline…silk and fire…honey and smoke.

that little candel on your table danced for you.

there was only a little bit left but i wished it for him. I could see his tiny reflexion in your eyes, above your golden cheeks, between your heavy lashes, the poor boring bastard sitting in front of you utterly unaware of his brilliant compitition.

it’s amazing the little things we miss.

but the seduction had begun. his little light would not be stopped, he would not go out, he would not fail, he lightly kissed your face, he was in your hair, on your fingers, he was all over your body. he stroked your sleeveless arms, your bare neck, your perfect brown belly.

there was a moment.

your gaze fell to the table. you folded your deep black hair behind you ear, i could see him reach for you, he lit your face like a hand holding, maybe for a second, maybe for two, you were looking right at him, he flared just a little, then sizzled out.

smoke for honey.

i could see the night was over for you. your date stood up as you were getting ready to leave. you put your jacket on yourself. he smiled at you.

you looked at the table.

it’s horrible to say that the moment of sadness i saw on you face made me happy. i had been rooting for the candel, the brave little guy, i wanted you for him. i was hoping that in that moment you were going to throw him in your purse. just steal him you know…

make things even.

but alas you slid him back to the center of the table…held for a moment…looked at your date, smiled, and left with his arm around you.

I stood away from the bar and approached our little abandoned hero.

drunk now i was as i started to talk to him.

“i’m proud of you” i said “you are the essence of poetry and music and all things that are beautiful.  i wish i had you courage”.

sometimes it is easy to laugh at yourself and sometimes not so much.

i tried to light him again but he was through.

As i was walking home i was watching the streetlights and headlights and houslights and starlights and i was thinking of our brave little hero and how hard he fought for you when it hit me…

he is not through…

he is everywhere.