Woke up on the floor –
the next thing I remember,
the C train, speeding westward from Rockaway,
explaining to myself what I can’t explain
The way your fingers were in my hair,
up there in the late night deep in Crown Heights,
your hands on the small of my back,
falling on the cloth, unclothed,
entwined, your lips whispering into mine
And finally,
I feel a strange spot in my heart
for a fleeting second.
That strange spot –
The way I wake up on the floor
At 4 AM, the hum of your chest heaving
underneath the covers, the heat cooling,
the fever breaking
Collecting my things, my thoughts, myself,
the softness of my footsteps,
the stairs leading down to your front door,
the train doors,
speeding westward from Rockaway.
The next thing I remember,
staring up at my own ceiling,
your number no longer saved in my phone.
I never should have made you write that poem
which you posted on Facebook.
You didn’t tag me, but you didn’t have to.
I never should have made it so weeks later
when you saw me on the C train,
your face showed just
a little bit of pain.
I never should have made it so in my dreams
I see the smear of the subway walls and wonder
if I should switch at the next stop
and let that strange spot in my heart
become full.
(August 4, 2024)