3:15 am.
We rest on the floor of your loggia for there’s no place for two chairs, just one.
The notion of space interests me, I relates you, and you move your head. You previously know. It’s one of the many things you’ve knowledge about me, just like you’ve learned to squeeze half a lemon in my cup of green tea and I’ve learned not to extract its juice of the other half in yours.
We sup the highly taxed cold coffee, the delivery person brought almost 30 min. late, and we converse about all our deceased relatives who could have possibly turned into stars, most of whom we didn’t grieve the departure of.
We put on hold for a while.Small Mouthful at a time. Almost in synchronization, like there’s an invisible, undestroyable rhythm.
You relates me about the land you’ve left behind, I tell you about mourning cities, like the one we’re in right now. We continued, and in our confab, your Shaw and my Shakespeare meet somewhere midway.
Let’s smoke, you say.
Takes ten.
You give my elbow a little gentle push. My millisecond-unconsiousness breaks. I take out the packet of delusive sweet cigarettes. We cig, or so we like to ponder. It’s a quite a time till dawn breaks, you yawn.
We should take a nap, you say. I move my head.
You stand up, clean the dust off your back pockets. Aren’t you going to take a nap? You’re in a stew, I can feel. In some time, I grin .
