jazz,
jazz,
swing,
dancing melt city on the hot side walk,
where,
little boys in jeans play,
baseball,
newyorkcity,
newyorkwomen,
newyorkgraveyards,
new­yorkbackalleys,
newyorktelephonecall,
call her at 2 AM,
drunk on a wine only the bums know about,
i bought a pack of,
cigarettes this morning,
i'm all out,
the side walk tilts,
untying my shoe laces,
and knotting my eye lashes,
she picks up after the 4th ring,
she's dressed to go out,
she's dressed to be undressed and to be kissed,
she's dressed for me,
jazz or something like a Medieval God,
shakes and vibrates and quakes and ******* down the street,
it sounds like rich whiskey in cheap glasses,
and sweating trumpet players and women dancing with their legs and skirts up,
i tell her to meet me on 6th avenue,
where everything comes to make sense,
with the whiskey,
the jazz,
the women in short dresses,
and the club is loud,
leaking out only certain noises,
specific laughs and,
the important notes,
played on the piano,
and squeezed from the,
saxophone,
like a poppy flowers ***** milk,
the payphone rings,
but i'm gone.

sometimes i wonder where she went, that girl. who used to love to dream and read and write and draw, who was so passionate. i wonder why she isn't here with me now, where she went, if she went anywhere at all. if she eroded away with time and if i might find her sediments still somewhere, being tossed around in the waves of my mind. if she was startled from that dreaminess when the alarm clock woke her because she was only a dream, if she ever felt tired enough to go back to her old self. sometimes i wonder if she died, if i missed her funeral, if she even had a funeral (and if she did, who would go? she didn't have any friends), if her body is still rotting somewhere in the cracks on my skull. because that's where she's fallen—in the cracks.

i think about her too often. I am too caught up in the past and future, i don't even recognize the present when it's staring back at me in the mirror.

the words have left me.
i am so lonely without them.
i am so lonely without her.

i write her obituary over and over in my head but none of the words sound right. she was great, she was awesome, she was more than that. she was a dreamer, an artist, she was more than that. she had thrown her head into the sky and rejoiced to see it floating amongst the clouds. no, she was more than that. still more than that.

because i miss her.
i really ******* miss her.

i've said this to myself so many times they're carved into my skull, tatooed onto my lips, blackened my teeth with their ink. i've said it so many times but it doesn't bring her back. i miss her more but that doesn't bring her back either.

i should use my time resourcefully and try to find myself while she's gone but i'm nothing without her. without her i'm just a headless body navigating the streets of newyorkcity at 3a.m. i get lost when i'm alone and i can't stand it. i am a simile without the adjective, just two nouns that don't know what to do with each other. i am getting lost now, writing this.