No matter how many times I come here I can't scratch the itch of wanting to have a cigarette on every fire escape clinging to those brick buildings, something like wanting to kiss a girl with braces I guess and her streets that I'm well aware are more like lanes in her mental scenery and hobos lumbering against the tide of wealth, resembling far too closely Sinbad and Issac Hayes, wearily dragging past the tourist stampede for the comfort of an alley while out here trench coats pop their collars and light cigarettes inside them against the cruel frigid wind with all the while me a little nervous to take a cab and rush back to her apartment from Penn Station after just arriving maybe because Tolstoy had a good point with the shitty thing about trains being that they destroy the natural distance between people even though it would be fair to say telephones have kept my little long distance deal alive for the last nine months and I'm here doubling up on Thanksgiving even though I'm a little worried all this cold might work one over on the spark which so quickly remade me afraid of the dark only because it wanted to be my nightlight and pretty soon the doorman will call up to her that I'd finally gotten here and maybe it's better to move here because I'm very taken with the idea of having a doorman, I like saying hello and seeya here, sorta mercifully murders my home town in gentle doses, but maybe taking my time getting south isn't such a bad idea cause if it works out this time we're both gonna have to make the decision to move in together either here or there and if she doesn't want to she's not gonna say she doesn't want to because it's far easier to rig this week with passive aggressive explosives or drop a few comments in like suicide bombers and 1+1=3 will very very very quickly diminish and shrivel and wither---better to snap than rust---but she already knows I really really don't need more taxidermy or autopsies on relationships since believe me I'm content to leave several establishments mysteriously lacking plaques and even more mysteriously set ablaze by underground arsonists in my heart commemorating a romantic rendezvous of mine where Cupid's arrows were suction cup tipped and didn't stick to her the way they should've instead just one big lousy jewelry box that I'd like to exchange for nickles in order to shove them up those dirty sentimental memories asses until they'll submit to being a regret and finally sing a sad song in that delicate beautiful way Jeff Buckley hits certain notes as if he knew he wouldn't be around for long before that Ophelia act of his and it makes me sleep a little better than I do currently what with this grinding jaw thing going on lately and we've only covered 15 blocks so far and I'm far too cold and the stars are out and I'm tired of looking at windows when I guess it's time to look out of hers when after all the stars always remind me of the first time I figured them out at seven or eight years old, cause I was convinced instead of everything being a void of darkness maybe the stars were poked like breathing holes in a shoebox which meant the pinpricks showed that outside everything was really bright and I asked my mom and she agreed with me and bought me some liquorish to reward the hunch and the doorman opens the door and I give the apartment number and he calls up says, "Yeah, Brin's here" and I can hear her say, "let him up" and I know her doors already open even before I get in the elevator and hear the Gerswhin serenade on the way up and get a chance to apologize for this drawn out stutter.
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