(no subject)
At dinner last night, during what was supposed to be an awkward reconciliatory evening and what suddenly turned into a romantic date when we got caught in an isolated thunderstorm on Houston Street and took shelter at the first restaurant we saw, we scrawled all over the butcher paper tablecloth. I wrote a poem about the wine we decided to split and she drew the profile of my face. (I've been thinking lately how the profile of someone you love, someone with a nose, looks like that of a horse, a noble steed, in the best way.) Before dinner had arrived, she looked at me and wrote, "Mrigaa fills the space between fork and knife."