(no subject)
i don't know where you are today.
i know where you are - cutesy little westchester
the g train to the 7 to, of course, grand central station
the harlem-bound 653, a train i've never heard of.
a lot i haven't heard of in these past few fucked up days.
but i don't know where you are.
fabricating old cliches of pill lines and group speak,
regimented visiting hours and blocked phone numbers.
a sad and shaky voice full of soft apologies
for the very last kinds of things that warrant them at all.
i watched the clock sync up with my heartbeat
somehow speeding by in an hours-long waiting room.
i pee, contemplate coffee. we talk about canton and old times and weddings.
my eyes fixate on broken fingers and broken brains, your best friend's chest
rising and falling with small talk.
i couldn't scratch your back, touch your knee, lift your forehead
and even on your bed stuy porch, your shitshow couch, your crowded room
even rubbing thighs in gypsie cabs called in a haze
even then i couldn't find you, couldn't place you, couldn't know.
where are you today? the sun is out, i'm on a bikeride.
and despite the smell stuck in between, you're not in my floorboards
and despite the sound i i haven't seen, you're not in that call.
the memory of yearsgone stuck in stubborn tear ducts
who today, despite my begging pleas, are giving gifts of rain.
two transfers away, a few chapters of didion, a 90 minute detour.
even when you look at me, then look down
then back at me
even after two years perfect, four months silence, three months love
even after all, i still don't know where you are.
i know where you are - cutesy little westchester
the g train to the 7 to, of course, grand central station
the harlem-bound 653, a train i've never heard of.
a lot i haven't heard of in these past few fucked up days.
but i don't know where you are.
fabricating old cliches of pill lines and group speak,
regimented visiting hours and blocked phone numbers.
a sad and shaky voice full of soft apologies
for the very last kinds of things that warrant them at all.
i watched the clock sync up with my heartbeat
somehow speeding by in an hours-long waiting room.
i pee, contemplate coffee. we talk about canton and old times and weddings.
my eyes fixate on broken fingers and broken brains, your best friend's chest
rising and falling with small talk.
i couldn't scratch your back, touch your knee, lift your forehead
and even on your bed stuy porch, your shitshow couch, your crowded room
even rubbing thighs in gypsie cabs called in a haze
even then i couldn't find you, couldn't place you, couldn't know.
where are you today? the sun is out, i'm on a bikeride.
and despite the smell stuck in between, you're not in my floorboards
and despite the sound i i haven't seen, you're not in that call.
the memory of yearsgone stuck in stubborn tear ducts
who today, despite my begging pleas, are giving gifts of rain.
two transfers away, a few chapters of didion, a 90 minute detour.
even when you look at me, then look down
then back at me
even after two years perfect, four months silence, three months love
even after all, i still don't know where you are.