Diner Girls
There was a Rahm, and a Leapt, or possibly a Lept. Boys with
street bite and rubbish taste in pants. Full scratch, all of them; wiggling
puppies, anyway, no matter their needle-sharp teeth. Push them down and run
away; circling back on the track. Cigarette smoke from three years—
ago
Sculptures chewed into existence: this is the heart. Her
smell is cheeseburgers, hot fries, buzzing diner lights at two a.m. I can close
my eyes and place my palms on smooth counters, feeling for the grit of lost
sugar. Eleven cups, two old men—
ago
All those boys, snapping at my heels. She impresses on first
listen. Commands them to get lost, and so they do, Peter Panning into the
cosmos. This pain is like no other; it's black and gamboling around my head.
It's lonely and golden. It's drunk on her scent, swathed in big discoveries,
pounding conversations into smoke. I barely recall the Aderall we took, her
favorite unnecessary drug. Some things dissolve on the tongue, but this was a
week
ago
and her feet are still propped in my lap. Rubbing them for
her after long shifts makes her love me, makes us stop talking long enough to
enjoy the smell of cold burgers on greasy yellow buns, sitting there, waiting
for us to devour them. This was a second ago
and now
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