costa verde blvd

you have no poetry books,
I told her.
why don't you have any poetry books?
why do you need poetry when you can write your own? she said.
I didn't reply.

we walked upstairs to her loft and I watched her change into a
band shirt.

she showed me her two fish.

we laid on her loft and she played her electric guitar.

I blinked and listened.
It was the sound of grated steel.

It's not tuned, she said.

she set it down, stood up, and seductively
walked down the stairs.

I watched.

we stepped on her balcony and listened to the
opera singer.

she mentioned they have a flute player too,
he plays in the morning, she says.
she wakes up to the sound of a flute.

would you like a cigarette? she says.
sure.
she pulls one out of the ash tray.

she lights a match and we
watch the fire burn.

I don't like the way this E is making me feel, she says.
I could run a marathon right now,
I'm restless.

yea, I don't like these pills either, I say.
they're really bad pills. I hope the comedown isn't too hard.

I have PTSD she says,
what's that? I say.

It's post-traumatic stress disorder.
oh my god, why am I telling you this?
I don't want to tell you about my shit, I think it's rude.
I have anxiety.

yea, I know how that is, I reply.

my mom is an addict. she's all sorts of shit,
she says.

why are you so quiet? it's creepy.

are you saying I'm a creep?
no no I didn't say that.

I look into her eyes,
I think I'll go now, I say.
ok, she replies.

give me a hug.
oh, you want a hug?

see ya.
bye.