squidmeow

dear god, i planted no tulips in autumn and no tulips came in spring. how silly of me, then to mourn the empty garden, to long for fields of amsterdam, to kneel at night in cold dirt, hands folded. i’ve learned there is a certain ache in lacking a thing never had, that small itch whose relief is two seasons past – so god, if you can hear me, know that i am homesick for amsterdam, whose name, like yours, i know but whose flowers i cannot see.

i don’t want a second cup of coffee, but i accept it anyway because he offers. (he’s got dirt in the white of his fingernails and i wonder, dimly, where his hands have been, where he keeps them when they are not in mine, or if it even matters) i ask him how can you stand to take your coffee black? (he’s put one creamer and two sugars in mine, just the way i’ve always liked it. he doesn’t know i use splenda now instead. i didn't bother to tell him.) he is quiet for a moment. then: the trick, he says, is not caring how bitter it tastes so i pour myself a third cup.