the bus kneels with a hiss and you
guide me towards the chocolate shop.
we order thick sugary drinks,
mine condensed and bittersweet
yours tall white and foaming.
we sit outside and cross our legs
like fags we sip our cocoa, pinkies extended
laughing as I wipe the saucer clean with my tongue.
we count the babies rolling by
the little dogs in sweaters
the women in shoes made from recycled rubber
reclaimed hemp fibers, organic laces.
fair trade panties
cruelty free blue jeans
we disappear against the wall of the cafe
mocking the hipsters we pretend we aren't.
in the book store, you hand me a cookbook.
we gawk at rasberry pies, and you touch my shoulder
just slightly, and I wonder how you kiss,
if you've got a curious tongue,
a gentle lower lip,
a sharp set of canines,
a creaking jaw,
a persistant cheek.
you romanced me in rockridge
over hot chocolate and vogue
and without touching me,
held my hand from sidewalk
to bus to bench to bart
and to sidewalk again.