I’ve been watching her twirl her pad thai noodles
around on her fork since the day I was born,
since we walked in the door,
since yesterday when I answered her
autocorrect “ketchup” text.
I know she can’t use chopsticks.
There is a dialogue running beneath our feet,
deep in the crevices with my diamond one-liners,
unspoken but merry in their pressurized madness.
She knows, she says, she’s in love.
“I know it because she’s not eating,
not even those sweet little pea-pod things that I love,
that I’m burning to sneak off her plate
when she looks away.”
But she knows it because she never has felt
so strongly. “I once had a kidney stone…”
She knows it because they’re so comfortable.
“I’m having a vision of Nazis playing Jenga-
I’d invite her to this delusion but I see
she’s a little preoccupied.”
She knows it just because. “The Earth is flat,
are you going to eat that yet?”
She gets a take-out box. Don’t the worst
of our rotten best friends fall in love
and get take-out boxes?
Can’t they learn to spell “catch up”
and use their chopsticks properly?