The Wet End of August

The light through the bedroom window warms
without warmth, the thought of
warmth, the
idea that warmth exists but…
it’s December; it’s
New York City.
Too much thinking, too
much inside; bouncing echoes falling
on deaf ears, on
previous assumptions, on and
on and on.
Thinking of the summer, of the
nights where naked skin was
too warm, was
not enough…hungry and
wanting we breathed.
Thinking that the wet end
of August was the apogee, the
height of the arc…the
bruising realization that
gravity exists for
Thinking that feeling them was too
much hard costly frustrating hurtful and
wishing needing wanting to
more more more.
Thinking brought me to this moment, to
this time, place…not
cold grey December…not
wet warm August;
but always

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