The days this lifts we’ll flood the streets. Will you get naked, relish the air, lick the filth of Manhattan Ave? What a relief it will be, what a relief.
The day this lifts I’ll throw clothes in a bag – unthinking, blaze down 95 – unblinking, bang down the red diamond door and oh What a reunion it will be, what a reunion.
The day this lifts we’ll shake the proverbial champagne and spray. Will you take a sip for the occasion, get drunk on talk and warm bodies, fall asleep touching elbows? What a night we will have, what a night.
The day this lifts I’ll let him go. Or maybe I won’t. Either way, my heart will keep up the thaw and eventually What a Spring it will be, what a Spring.
The day this lifts will we be any different? Will you still seek deep comfort? Will I still conceal a dark heart? Will our minds be wiped clean like grime from windows in rain? What a test it will be. What a test it will have been. What a test.
Do you ache for the quiver in my step as I approach on soft moss?
Oh, and hello. (forgive me, formality escapes me when I teeter on the brink of bright flashes)
I’ll begin again: How are you? Who are you? Do you anticipate my arrival, as I do yours?
I’m afraid I’ve not had much luck. Swimming upstream in a river of dead fish slopping down the falls as I shoulder out of the muck. Put another way: Love has come (and gone) like a pin prick: it shocks/stings/smarts the finger pad, then evaporates in the wake of the cosmic accident, the digit retaining the throb, blood gathering where surface air meets sebaceous gland.
But then there’s You. The end of my flopping about, my sucking of index fingers. I approach on soft moss. Do you ache?
I try to remain optimistic, with my “Will Concern,” but the kernel of the absolute lies in its non-existence, in its very un-American un-guarantee. Perhaps there is no recipient. Perhaps Recipient is Writer. Perhaps I am “going it alone.”
But I’d to think there is a “You,” a hearth for my heart. It keeps me light, keeps me going outside, keeps me filling mine cup so I can runneth it over.
My tread is lithe, the moss plush. Do you ache for the quiver in my step?