That the Cuffs Are Off

Tompkins Square Park, Wednesday night, New York spring has been so good to us this year, all mild breezes and soft sunshine like never before. My typewriter creaks today when I touch it, nothing comes out right and all I can think is if I could only feel the weight of a man's body on mine, maybe this fever would go away. 

I dreamed about you last night, your browned skin and sad Kerouac eyes but I woke with a start, it never works out the way we'd plan. My skin is browner now, too, my limbs are older but they are mine, I recognize the face in the mirror and it's been ages since I saw her last. I wish I could tell you that. 

I wish I could tell you what it's like to be free.