pigeons cry out in wails. no brooklyn accent. long vowel sounds here.
who is waiting to be left? the one with hammered skin digs self into ocean. the one with grease-blood and tight pants. the one who does not blink. the one who kissed me on railroad tracks and lifted my shirt high enough to locate spherical distractions. the one with tattoo on ribcage and spit of ink. the one. the one.
man with lips i’d like to detach and place on my pillow for when i need a kiss afterward asks me about soulmates. i tell him there cannot be such a thing. i tell him there cannot be such a thing, since our soul is never sure of what it wants.
distance can remove the stain of longing, until jet lag pushes tourist into pavement and bruises are served with breakfast.
eileen reminds me to think about poetry. she handles my waist and fondles my earwax.
the smell of tobacco here is romantic like brooklyn bridge reflected against ny skyline at 9:14pm. you should have lost your fingers inside me at that moment. i would have let you, but you prefer beds and door locks.
there is an allowance of one cigarette pack. each inhale is hungry and reminiscent of early morning digestion of rainy filter and chemicals.
sip of see-through city satiates me until supper where I spread unmelted cheddar cheese on whole wheat bread and eat in two parts.
graveyard of bottles in canal mixes with loose petals and it is almost beautiful.
are you too high to play rummy 500 with me?