The day of our first picnic we eat half of it on the A train while three kids breakdance and we wish for a dollar in our pocket when they ask for a tip. You open a bowl of sweet pineapple and feed me with your left hand. I think of the night before when you commented how, “Your fingertips flutter when you first drift away. That’s how I know you’re asleep.”
We bought sour dough baguettes with peppery Croatian olive oil and gooey Italian balsamic that we gobbled with creamy Irish cheddar cheese, tang-ing our tongues and filling our bellies. The girl that sold us the Grand Central delights put my change down hard enough on the counter to remind me that some people still have to work Sundays.
A week ago there may have been beer or wine but that was after our knees skinned the last time you decided to never touch it again. Five days ago.
The morning of the first night we spend apart the sky is magenta orange when the town car picks me up. You travel 18 flights down to escort me out. It’s the first time I say I’ll straighten out in two months.
Before you, addiction came to erase all of what I did not want to recall and could never grow to accept.
The only thing I am truly addicted to since your arrival, is you.