A Brownstone in the City

Photo by berenice melis on Unsplash

I drove past your old apartment yesterday. I didn’t mean to but I found myself there by accident. I remember the Brownstone you lived in, I glanced up to the second floor window. I remember sharing a cigarette with you in your room, both of us naked and blowing the smoke out the window.

moss grows 
old tree stump 
memories remain

Summer of 1994. The City was hot and we were young and hungry. Hungry for life and insatiable for experiences. After work you took me to see the Lunachicks at some dive bar in the Lower East Side. Gay wrestling porn on the TV over the bar as the singer screamed Jan Brady.

We drank and smoked. You pushed me up against the wall and kissed me hard. Our mouths searched for that elusive soul connection. Closer, it’s closer than it was ever before.

rain drop — 
ripples race across 
a pond

Stumbling back to your apartment we raced to your room and fucked like animals. Your window was open, the sounds of sex and the City mingled in the humid air. It hung there, unresolved and impending.

new baby 
all mothers gather 
close

In the morning we made love. We cherished each sensation, each kiss, each touch. With every embrace we tried to push it away. It was coming. We both knew it. A crossroad in both our lives came that summer morning.

With bewildered looks, we chose our directions.

I drove past your old apartment yesterday and I know you’re no longer there. You have a life and so do I. We traveled our own path with twists and turns…

…but I wonder what it would’ve been like if that summer morning never came.

6 feet down
the darkness
is 
absolute

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