A snowy day on North State Street
A snowy day on North State Street. Two days after Christmas. Greens and sweets, and the novelty of having plans you can skip.
It feels good on the record player. It feels good on the damask or the drug rug. It feels good when we laugh and we can smell each other’s cold sweat. Would you like a?, yes I would.
My boots aren’t good enough, but that’s ok. This sweater has lots of holes in it, but that’s ok. Maybe we’ll wear each other’s sweaters to breakfast then stumble back here in a haze of Marlboro smoke and breath. You are beautiful and ruddy, and no one is paying attention.
Experience makes us old and gives us something to think about when we get there. I kiss even the puddles of brown water our boots leave in the anteroom. We could be in the 8 Ball, or watching TV under somebody’s grandma’s afghan on the couch. I love you. I miss this. It’s snowing.
We could read books for hours, or put on records and do the dishes. The hot dishwater prunes up my cold fingers as I grasp my little mug mostly empty with red wine. Will I roll you a cigarette? You know I will. The sugar cookies are incongruous and delicious. Really, red wine and cigarettes just make each other taste worse, but the bounty is bounded, even to us.
Together. Alone. A blue house. A white house. Sharp peach-yellow street light bent by the snow banks and piercing your eyes. It’s dark, but we can’t go home. We are home. We are the home.
I don’t want to spend money, I just want to give each other nose kisses. I want to remember your cheeks, your collarbones, the way you put on your shoes. A snowy day on North State Street and nothing to do but love. We are lucky. We are so goddam lucky.