June, 1973. City Road digs, Auckland, New Zealand.

 

It's morning again. We greet this new day 

with hot tea and buttered toast.

 

We speak only with our newly wide-awake eyes 

over the rims of steaming teacups.

 

There's that pretty smile, the one which melts my heart.

She's all freshness, bright, and soapy-smelling, 

with just a hint of Provencal wildflowers.

 

I smell musty, like sperm, and the bottom of an ashtray. 

I call her 'Rushki', because she always has to be somewhere.

 

When she leaves, my world ceases to exist.