Jenny it’s getting dark and
             I should really be getting home,
                                                But I’m in New York City,
And I’m drunk,
And I don’t know what I should be doing with my hands but
I wish I could hold you in them.
Just so I’d know what to do with my hands.
And they wouldn’t feel so weighted,
        And there’d be something in my palms
To keep them from balling into fists.
         I wonder if you were here
If you’d even see me at all;
Now that I’m such a New Yorker.
          And do all these things I’d like to say I hate
But love.
        Irreverently.
                       Passionately.
                               Painfully.
I’m not not myself.
        On the contrary actually.
  I’ve just finally discovered the tools necessary
To make me who I’ve always been.
  I was not who I was.
And you were not who I thought you were.
Or maybe you were.
                     Who am I to say.
I’m just a man you never knew who is deeply, foolishly, and                   completely irresponsibly in love with you.
And who wishes you were here
So he could hold you
And keep his hands from balling into fists.