I Don't Think It's the Caffeine

"Here's the alcohol and drug pressure my mother warned me about..."

When the man walked up to the coffee shop counter, clutching his multi-colored racing bicycle tire, I couldn't imagine the fact that his back hair crept out of his sleeveless shirt, or his curly dark hair from under the straw fedora style hat, but just that somewhere, a racing bike was missing a multi-colored tire.

This was enough to remind me that I was alive, and that, truthfully, I didn't know much of anything. And not in the self defeating sense of a 12 year old kid who hangs out at Hot Topic (or wherever the current day equivalent is) just, that mystery remains in the universe.

Another walks up, clutching her copy of Hunger Games, and points out the biscotti she wants with the book's spine. She pulls her wallet from her back pocket, and I am still trying to decide if she's cute or not.
And this feels like the garbage one has to write in order to unearth the good material.
I forgot how hard it can be.

I think I wanted her to pick me out of the pastry case, instead.
Her being cute wasn't really important,
at least, not as much as my need
to feel wanted-- carnally
skin taught with goosebumps
fingers like spider webs spreading
on my back.

I remember a comment from my friend's wedding reception,
"You're engaged, not dead," as we both admired
the long green and yellow dresses
and the bodies that moved them.