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.