"I love you, baby-"
, she begins,
flicking cigarette ashes too close to my shoes

       makes me think of days
       -- past? future?
       blessed days
       where joy could be bought for a
       two-scoop icecream

       of course, now disdaining joy -
       "too naive"
       "so passe"
       "abused by capitalism"
        - she prefers eyeliner and smokes
       (although she'll recycle her Starbucks cup)

       she thinks its equally
       tragic
       to be a sub-culture as it is to be
       mainstream

       there's no winning with this one

Me, sitting, as she
inhales
(with disdain)
exhales
"-but not that much..."

(Of course not, it would be too Hallmark.
But the fact that she lets me in this far
tells the
lie in her words)

and the ashes flick
flick