for the first time in my life, i crave liverwurst

maybe i crave it because.. when i was a little girl and you came over my mom would make you liverwurst sabdwiches.

we'd walk down the hill from your house in anticipation of disgusting blueberry pancakes

I had apple pankcakes recently at my dad's house and my brothers said we used to eat those in the old days.

i don't remember the apple, just the blueberry. i remember sitting across the table from you trying not to laugh with soup in my mouth.

now i'm just sitting here remembering it.

in my head i'm picturing a gray tinted image of you sitting in front a statue somewhere in... Portugal. and you're wearing a suit with a cowboy-type collar. i can almost see what's in your hand... maybe a cigarette, maybe a pen so you can write your love a letter. i wish your hair was sloppily swept away from your deep brown eyes, but it hangs over them instead.

i've never been to Portugal, but there you are in the center of the universe. my center of the universe.

and i'm wondering where you really are.

last time i saw your mother was the last time you saw her, lying sick in bed. the day you left you wanted me to think you were using up your inheritance because you were heartless. you told me you weren't good enough for me, only not in so many words.

now in the midst of your escape you must be lonely. there is no one in Portugal who thinks about you like i do. i am the only one who falls asleep to images of you.
when we sat under the tree where you gave me my first kiss, you said life was like that sometimes, unpredictable, but mostly it was up to you. After we made love by the creek i know you'd be leaving me and that i wouldn't be able to stand it. you thought i couldn't predict it, but i did.

"Asi es la vida," you're saying to a young spanish woman. You like to say things in spanish with no Rs because you could never roll your tongue properly. your mom said she didn't teach you spanish growing up so that you wouldn't have an accent. you're lost in Portugal because of the language, and you've come to Barcelona to see the house in which your father was born. you saw it in pictures and said you'd buy it when you became a success.

all you ever gave me was your love.

now i guess you're in a cafe in Cannes practicing your french. your tie is undone and your sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up. you're not quite sure what you ordered, but it tastes like coffee. whoever is sitting with you, it doesn't matter. your thoughts are of me and the smell of my soft skin. you're thinking of the time my mother almost caught us in my basement. you're remembering how long i held you the night your mom died. you know almost for sure that i still love you. but that 1% chance that i don't is haunting you.

i'm waiting for your call. i still want my liverwurst.

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