a solidified desk; how i am here and not there, how i am there and not here; the way my calves tie in knots as i climb those filthy hills, those trash heaps, the grit of humanity, the subway fumes and the lonely sidewalk ash; the way the sun sets earlier in the sky; the way there is always time to race; our desires to fast forward and rewind; my dashboard in the morning contains the summertime heat - my windows feel fall scrap against their panes; i am flushed, i am cold. airport dreams & the future hanging in the air, taking off like the hundreds of geese along the reservoir every time i think about the way my feet will feel setting down, one step at a time, in your city; how i'll mistake the lake for the atlantic and be okay with it; how your skin might feel near mine; how i buttoned my shirt all the way this morning against the 6 a.m. chill; how i look for you in their faces, in my sheets, in a past of tangled legs, in the ocean waves on a 1 a.m. beach; on the steps in an autumn new york; in the symphonies and the white lines on the highway; in the green summer hills & the piano keys; in the flicker in my stomach when considering your lips. how we've grown older, how my forehead might have wrinkled, but how you're still a Boy & i'm still a Girl.

perhaps i need you, lingering in the air between my days. these days. your maybe fingertips - your maybe laughter and your maybe shoulder i may lay my head against as the public transit slips us through the city like rain water, the mechanic lullaby rocking us like this vivid daydream.

my desk, so cold and so black.