And so the song flows -
a messy trace of barbiturate haze,
the song flows,
tinged with a red-eyed, cathartic
sort of sparkle about it in the dark,
like the backalley streetlamps by my window
at one in the morning.

July 1st-
I take a step outside, climb to the roof.
My eyes swell from the sunlight,
glasses steam up from the heat.
I have no need for lifting my *** off these sheets anymore but to write.
Manhattan rooftop, why did you have to betray me?
There was a time when
you were the glistening silvertoned backdrop to all of my surreptitious loves
as I sat on you,
idly humming jazz,
peacefully watch the go-and-come
of the synagogue pouring into the
streets below,
pitifully bemused
at the concept of dejection.
You once gave me a view of opportunity,
and ever-alert, always-foreseeing eyes that could have seen all the way to the buildings of Stamford.
Now I'm eighteen and terribly myopic.

What at all at this point is to exist
with implacable certainty?

Manhattan rooftop,
Tell me that
solipsism is the universal truth,
then I will not feel as alone.

Sometimes I catch myself
wrapped up in the moments
when we were making up
my feet on your dash
going somewhere fast
all this frozen in my past -
the wind pounding through me
breathing in the warm air
always taking the scenic route.

I remember the small details
like your dimples
when a smile spread across your face
and the gap in your teeth
that I wished would stay.
You sang me to sleep
with that voice you hated
but it sounded like honey
to my ears, softly driving me
into your arms.

I've tried to erase
the memories of you
but that's just not something I can do
because every breeze of every season
smells like you
and everything we made each other do.
I know I was to blame
when you didn't feel the same,
and of course, I'm ashamed
of my past self
and maybe you are too.
But distance tricked us,
and I long for being a kid
slowly lowering my eyelids
as we drove past the power grids.