You're Everything

I love you, I love you, I love you, when I sit on orange plastic chairs in depressing little cafes, sipping chicken soup, after everyone else is gone, I think of you, I think of what I will be saying to you, through you.

And as I watch handsome Pakistani men cavort around heavy wooden furniture tossing off ghazals in Urdu, I take note of the hilly-shaped spikes in their hair so I can come back to tell you about it.

When I taste the ginseng chicken soup, I close my eyes and try to come up with words to describe that strong herbal taste so I describe it to you, how it flowed down my throat - comfort, and maybe something stronger?

And when I visit the doctor's - a nice specky Chinese man with a kind smile who, contrary to (my) popular belief, did not dish me out a load of disgusting antibiotics, my eyes roam over his kind, lined face, his office, while my mind skips merrily over his words, noting each one, so I can come back to tell you about it.

Nice guy. I take note of his name, so I can come back here if I'm sick again. And I can't wait to get back and tell you I've found a doctor.

And since I'm reading More, Now, Again, I decide you're my ritalin.

And since, I'm listening to Michael Buble, I think:

It's you, it's you,
You make me sing
Your every line
Your every word
You're everything...