Our wheels vibrate beneath us

But you seem undaunted by the motion.


The sun electrifies your sweater

While Washington Square Park passes on the right.



The monument looks less like an arch and more like a

frown. Because I know your back will never arch for me

again. Our bus hits a pothole

And one of us jumps as we see the airport.

Growing larger and larger through the rain.



Our momentum in this moment

Could carry us to the moon,

Where we'd sleep in separate craters

and hum a different tune.

It hurts to think about the wasted nights I spent ruining

my voice. Under your window.

When all we have now is the banal tick-tock of the

cuckoo click And the silence living in our shadow.

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