It’s not that our relationship needs to be fixed
or that living without you has become unbearable,
it’s more the uncertainty of the future mixed
with the certainty that I love you terribly, --
it’s the cigarette we shared in Central Park,
and the fountain embraced by in Lincoln Center,
it’s the poetry I read for you in the dark,
and the frame of your body, long and slender,
it’s the thought that we can’t pin time to the floor,
it’s the cars outside and the sudden shrill of
their breaks that keep me up, wishing you were
next to me, with my arm underneath your pillow.