We were runners.
North on 6th. West on 20th.
Up and down the West Side Highway.
Across 14th, we raced to the bad Goodburger.
But now it’s cold. Inside, I run in circles.
I pretend that you ran away,
that I could never keep up.
But I was always faster, could run longer.
I breathed you in with the Fall.
I needed no music, just your footsteps
following and surrounding stereo of the close open air.
You were the beat keeping my pace.
You paced my heartbeat. It felt right.
I could have kept running.
But you walked away from me.
We were married.
By you, symbolically.
Simply you called me husband.
Hot and sweaty after racing,
I offered to carry your hoodie.
You offered me your hand instead.
I miss my “wife”.
Honeydew, do you miss me too?
You walked away.
Now this is a city of ruins.
All the places we were,
Union, our Herald.
River Court across the , Hudson
across the East. Brooklyn Heights
And all the places I go, the portmanteaus
spell out your name.
You were my South of Houston;
Broadway busy, your fashion mind.
You were my Triangle Below Canal;
artful youth, urban and wild.
Now you’re harder to get to
than Down Under the
Overpass. Manhattan Bridge
And all the songs I love—
you hijacked and I surrendered.
Each mile I run,
I hear you in my stride.
Sidewalks dance slow to my sad beating.
You were my music soul mate.
Now you’re my half-empty bed.
You were my running partner.
Now you’re my shortness of breath—