Rolling with my thunderstorms,
violet shifts to black
and you run ashore.

Capsized outside a theatre,
I wrench you out
from the starfish glob of mess
I made, blow the grit
off your forehead,
scrabble for a candle
we can re-light together.

One time, mud snatched
at your ankles.
You screamed but I was seeing
drains and reflections
twisted in puddles
like fuzzy lines on the old TV.
A migraine came;
I threw it up into the sink
and slept.

Lost count of the times
you've tossed me out
in the snow, garbage among
banana skins, frozen earlobes,
but who chucks a duvet
over my frost-flecked skin
but you,
with a clumsy smile
and mascara raining
down cheeks.
Every time.

Tonight I find you
in the evening fog
after searching
every subway station
my legs would allow.
My shins cry for rest.
The busker plays
Bob Dylan out of tune
but can’t blame a guy for trying.

You discover my eyes,
put your face to my coat,
mumble words like you have
a mouthful of ice.

Lookin’ for a friend?
The 11.04 towards
Borough Hall.
We get on, I catch your breath,
count the hundreds
and thousands of steps
to home.