The cure for love is more love
—Julian Talamentez Brolaski
Green beans, sausage, pasta shells, shrimp,
mushrooms. Drinking perhaps three liters of
water a day. Suddenly sleepy. Still impressed
with the rain. If it can be called that (a hard,
San Francisco rain). Sitting catty-corner to
a relatively cute neighbor, only I meant to say
“new” (not “cute”) but is he? I guess I was
too busy writing poems via instant message to
all of my friends (I have several) and being in
love.
Like I love the clouds Otto painted in our
bedroom nearly nine years ago. Like I love
Coco, and the drizzle (a much better word
for it, I am thinking) and the comfort of
the company of good friends. In our
apartment. Where it’s not so very
cloudy, today.
The laundry is half-folded. And now,
thanks to my breaking the bedroom
window (which, despite the accusa-
tions, was a freak accident and not
my fault), forcing us to move things
around a little during its replacement,
I have a new secret cubbyhole for
books that I love (and/or am current-
ly reading), right here next to the bed.
Under blue, partly cloudy skies.
I have a new secret cubbyhole for
books that I love (and/or am current-
ly reading), right here next to the bed.
Under blue, partly cloudy skies.
