Wandering back to Brooklyn to beat against blackened sheets,
the air-conditioning has yet to kick in and thick treacle slides down my back amorously, mimicking your touch.

Your sweet, candied teeth flash when you laugh, mouth spewing suggestions of kisses as we fold into each other on powder blue seats, with no signs of stopping until Seneca Avenue.

We could not keep catching hands over cold brew in sleepy cafés until sunset fell over Starr – I return to familiar aromas in Irish corners,
in a daze of scone and sodabread.

But every so often, I wake from a dream, with an arm gone dead; just like when you would lay there in my nook and watch me glassless as I dissected America.