House Lights

We sat in the kitchen window, leaning out to keep the smoke from blowing straight in. I couldn't count the bottles on the table. I don't know what was said. My mind is a fog and I just try to keep up with conversation.

Last night I dreamed of my old roommate on Morton, of the puppies; they came on a bus and the hellos were shorter than the goodbyes. Gut-wrenching goodbyes and the bus doors closed with me in them. My subconscious opens the door to what has come, at last. I woke up heart-broken.

There are no rats in the Stockholm subway. It's so clean, the air is so cool. I miss them, their companionship. It may sound strange. But I think of it every time I stand on that platform. It's not the big things I miss; the big things remain. But New York, honey, you were nestled into my every pore, every hidden fold, every dusty corner.

I walk these streets prouder now, than I used to. But I am perpetually lost, without you.