lunch

it feels strange,
looking at you over our bowls of noodles
as you deployed your cynicism once again
when i described my friend's relationships,
my relationships: like water.

it is as though i'm asking for your approval.

and then what, you said; and then what?
with that amazing impish grin that makes me wonder
if a little tooth will suddenly unblemish
the whole picture at the corner of your mouth
and make the world end.

so he fucks her, and then he fucks her again
and then what? there's nothing more to it.

you place a fish slice in your mouth and chew.
i sit there and play with my chopsticks in my soup
swirling it around: my pangaea of sediment breaks and dissolves
into continents.

so we could hold hands and we snuggle and we sit,
drinking your sour plum tea, and i think, maybe
we don't really need to bother if there is an 'and then what'
maybe there doesn't have to be an 'and then what'
cos this is all there is, and to me, it is enough.
but of course i keep quiet and smile
and watch you smile, feeling happy that you're happy.
i wonder what would have happened if i had leaned over then,
spontaneous and not thinking like i am wont to do,
and just kissed you.
you'll probably taste
just like the tea: deep orange, a ridiculous mix of sweet and sour,
so awful but strangely wonderful all the same.

but i didn't,

and so we sit
with our cooling bowls and half empty drinks
(alright, mine was empty already, i'm sorry);
my soup developing an atmosphere of its own,
cumulus clouds of stock included,
and i hope for an hour at least, you didn't think
'and then what' thoughts of me.

and truthfully, that is enough for me.