This city blows an enervating breeze. I am neither cold nor hot. I want to breath, but not this air. I want to walk, but not these impersonal streets; not with my detached neighbour who cannot tell my moods. I want to lie, but not by myself; not in this massive mess that is my room.
Our connections made in that small rectangular room, cross through capitals, and blow you as you stand. You need your feet to think, all is spinning around you. But you laugh, sweetly. Still you laugh, and I close my eyes and imagine that NYC apartment or maybe you in front of your dance class, holding the phone, waving at your fellow dancers who pass by, saying to me, I miss you.