Strange to think of you now
In the back of a car,
with another girl’s head inside my lap.
Green and red and yellow lights—
reflected on wet and blinking pavement.
I can see your smile in those lights
I can smell our old room, and feel your
hips pressed into my waist.
I can taste that first night in Buffalo again,
cold rust, lusting, ice encrusted sidewalks, and
aching love like bonepain.
I found our memory in this
downtown brick, summer rain, and I’ve been up all night, drinking.
Beer soaked streets, the thrim and thrumming
vibrating bass, floating
like 21st century pollen in the air.
Dreaming back two
years, your face—and mine, accelerating toward
apocalypse.
I see a flower closing petals for the night.
American cities,
walking with cocaine around the edges of my nose,
and I love the friends I’m with, but’m
wondering what your hair looks like these days.
Your legs walk across my mind, two years after;
like a dream, or a withered plant, or a
wrinkled bed that never existed.