we're not fighting,
we're dancing to Idles,
tiptoeing back to the typer
to punch a few keys
before stairwell sex
stops time for a spell.
we met when we were both
on separate simultaneous missions
to find the same thing apparently,
and our hands grabbed the last copy
of a book the cute little store had
and that was where fate fucked us.
we took one look at each other
and agreed to share the book,
but she shared her bed, too,
which turned into morning coffee,
and this perfect little poem,
but that's about it.
we'll live on
in a little pocket of time,
never to return or gloat,
only visiting in nostalgic dreams,
or visions when the smell of old books
returns to my nostrils on 9th Street.