You Loved Sitting By The Window

Amy, I treated you badly, dumped
you for an actress, a pert Southern
tease who made me come like a teen.

But I was young. We were young.
New York was still dangerous, open
to madness, and I desired my fill.

Had we stayed together our break
up would've been worse. I felt
guilty enough as it was.

I remember the parties,
Vassar grads, Ivy
League stragglers, exotic
to my rube eyes, the reason
I moved there to begin with.

Cape Cod,
Central Park,
The Dakota covered
in soot, Columbus Ave.
flea markets -- I still smell
old books blackened
by exhaust, blown open
by crisp Fall breeze.

I can't say I loved you,
but I loved our energy,
adventures, discoveries.
I was without form, yet
you recognized part of me.

Your drunken Spanish
sex talk in the back of
uptown cabs, deep
kissing and groping as
darkened buildings flew by.

Then I flipped out, crashed
into areas you had no stomach
for, telling me you didn't understand.

Neither did I. Yet you
nursed me after oral surgery,
fucked me after we split,
gave to me what I didn't
want, but took anyway.

That was ten thousand
suns ago. I've died too
many times since then
to notice. But I remember you,
Amy, these thoughts inspired
by an old photo I found.