mal de coucou

the first time i ran into you on the street -- or under it, to be accurate -- we were careening towards a better understanding, we shared a couple of knowns in various towns across our peppered past. how many times were you the dreamy brunette and i the sullen gaucho? how many nights did we plunder our transgender bender into the elaborately loud here and now? i am sick of being the arrow that splashes somewhere off target, and i am sick of getting whiffs of your whereabouts outside; whaddaya say we miss that time we were near enough to hear all the innuendos spread like an infectious disease in the walled-in city of our tropical once upon a time? what are we supposed to say when we stumble unto our common bond and discover we were each meaning to cash in our chips?