Wake up.
A dream is not a dream
unless you remember it.
She loves another man but I love her anyway. Trees whistle
and birds fly to a destination only they know they are headed. I have had four
glasses of bourbon in the past hour and the only thing stopping me from kissing
her right now are the words she said to me: "I don't know if I still love
him". Rain is falling on our heads. They are the size of chocolate chips.
My brother said that when it rains, it is Jesus crying. I want to believe him
but I have not loved the lord for years. This morning was 74 degrees and
pleasant. I awoke to birds singing and the smell of coffee brewing from my
neighbor’s apartment. Her son is six years old and does not have a father. I
wave hello to him when I see him playing with action figures on the staircase
alone. He has a scar under his right eye. I do not know how he got it. Now the
clouds in the nighttime sky are frowning down upon us. There are no stars. Her
jacket hood is on. Her blonde strands of hair poke gently out the sides of the hood.
They are trying to escape. The raindrops feel soothing on my face as I look
into her eyes. Maybe it is the last time I will dive into her ocean. I will
drown and call her name with my final breath. I want to capture this moment
like a Polaroid camera but maybe burn it later down the road. We are on the
corner of 6th Street and 1st Avenue. Her hand brushes my hand by accident. I
wanted to grab it and never let it go — a caged bird without a key. To let our
skin melt into one. This means forever but everything ends in flowers.
By now, the rain has stopped. It is three in the morning.
Taxis are filled with people who cannot stay awake after a long night of poison
and sin. We are on her doorstep. The straw doormat in front reads ‘Welcome Home’
in script lettering. This is not my home. Her keys are in her hand. They clink
together and echo through the empty streets. The building is made of stone and
brick. The first tenants who have ever lived here are probably angels. Their
children probably only visit their grave once a year. She asks me if I want an
umbrella in case the rain picks up on my walk back home to Brooklyn. I thank
her but tell her no. She would want it back. I will not be responsible for
returning it. I do not want to see her again.
New York is for lovers. The world is made of heartbreak. We
collide and never open our eyes again. Our souls are never revealed and stay
inside a box full of grief. When one thing leaves, another thing arrives. But
things are just things and filled with secrets that can’t speak. She is here.
But she is truly not here.
– dw.
– dw.
