i couldn't find you.
so i painted myself
all over the underneath of this city.
trying to make myself
as visible as possible
in this constant night.
i drew a map
of the old D train line
harlem in the mid 90s
the parks around the edges of the city
the shores around the boroughs
hustle spot storefronts
train tracks we jumped in and walked around on
empty golf courses
coney island boardwalk at night
lower east side of psychedelic and opiate years
the brooklyn attic where you let it all go
telling time through skylight
and idealism
pool halls and unwatched movies of young lust
the church where you cried your last hyperventilating goodbye
to your best friend in the bronx
hoping for some sort of comfort
bronx of murals and the strip beneath the 4 train
reservoirs cemeteries and desolate parks
the old bronx of crackhouse nightmares
and reality
the breeziest point off the hudson
promise of the river valley greens and golds in october
city greys and dusty steel of winter
cold and crisp
topography/class dichotomy.
i tried to chart the course back to me.
there is paint
caked
in the cracks in my fingertips
everything smells of yesteryear
sometimes
i smell like you, when i found you
outside a borrowed house
in the midwest one morning,
laying on a porch swing
by yourself,
on the first sunny day of the season.
counting the pick up trucks,
droplets of color still in your hair
rings around your eyes
telling age like trees,
your arms bare and glistening
and a silent phone by your side.
you smelled like cut grass, under-eating,
and a pack of cigarettes smoked in deep regret.
so i wonder
when you will find your way back to me.
for now i wish to stop
crawling into tunnels with
flashlight, high hopes, and spray can in hand.
take the train home. take a long nap.
wake me up
when you've arrived.
Tweet
