What i remember when i forget you
You exited the taxi to meet me on broadway as the driver
pulled out towards lower manhattan you grabbed my coat
pretending to rob me. no one would see this in the
perpetual emptiness of the financial district, where we
met at an hour so late everything felt like the weight it was
beneath water. i was still embarrassed, casting a look towards
parked cars, citi bikes, LED lights to assure myself the world,
hadn’t seen us too intimately. our night ending standing over
a window watching anyone accidentally caught with their light on.
our backs to the room you will ask me to describe everything
i remember, and though time has faded this night and context
has waterlogged its details i know you asked me to do this before
sleeping. the radiator hissing, stood vigil on our behalf.
your sound sleep protected by your deep snores i am burdened
with the conviction to rise out of bed without waking another.
searching for anything to bring me warmth. in the shadow of
adjusted eyes my side of the bed spills over with your hand
weightless, outstretched, your eyes a tired intensity searching
instinctively to meet me where you’d robbed me some hours before.
you will tell me you do not remember this incident between sleep
as i later on will only recall this exit, to an early city, woven in yawns.