sidewalks

We were runners.

North on 6^th.  West on 20^th.

Up and down the West Side Highway.

Across 14^th, 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,

our Union, our Herald.

Our views:

your River Court across the Hudson,

my Brooklyn Heights across the East.

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 Manhattan Bridge Overpass.

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—

photo1:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/22/37192974_431a9d3331_o.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3630/3513243476_0f2b4390c6_o.jpg