this place has high ceilings, huge windows 12 feet tall with arched moldings. hardwood floors and lots of sun, but not tonight.
i am sitting on my windowsill, dreamily, the city beyond me.
its streets are black with rain, the ornate french moldings and arches sprawl about wetly, lush.
i am smoking a cigarette, killing time, weaving words loosely and watching the smoke curl and waver. watching the city, yet another lover i am about to leave behind to the ghost of words.
my mind's fingers are penetrating the skin of new york, caressing its draw. there is a magnet somewhere inside of me with all polarities north, i am thinking.
i am not dreaming: the first long sensual wail of a saxophone rolls out of an open window from the street, it is swaying into the darkness and tumbles into a passionate cry of solitude.
this song is blue and charcoal grey, this song is the fingernails of cool scratching down your back.
this song is me single and heating half a can of campbell's because i could not eat the whole thing.
this song is coffee always ready and the sky always black.
the smoke curls and a taxi swishes by and i am thinking the city the city the city this actually happens this is the city and the saxophone gives a final blare and is gone.
this is not a movie. this is now.