In the end it got so bad that after a French Noir film screening
on 6th Avenue and 53rd Street,
I was begging for one kiss, for one gesture, anything to calm my night.
He clang to me, his head turned to the side, hips shifted backwards,
like he had been doing recently, so I wouldn’t draw conclusions
I should long have identified as illusory but couldn’t,
as if I had not seen the writing on the screen in black and white,
so many Tuesdays and Thursdays, films about deceit, corruption,
about trying to get rid of people you’ve let into your life
because you needed them and now what?
I begged, let’s at least be friends, with benefits,
he said he was not able to connect with anyone right now,
he was just a neurotic New Yorker,
yes, I howled, you’re like this island, my dream come true.
I was holding on to the lights, and the fog, and the drizzle,
on this late summer evening on 6th Avenue, begging,
for friendship, for benefits, for a kiss,
and the passersby laughed, kiss already, what’cha waiting for?
He was still clinging to me, head turned to the side, hips shifted backwards,
I’m just a neurotic New Yorker, can’t you see?
I know, I know that’s why I love you so, I cried,
knowing full well he was actually from the suburbs of Philly.