And there is this thing,
this inescapable thing about her,
this thing she does,
which I cannot completely define or describe.
All I know is that when
she comes into the room
or when I hear her voice
or feel the touch of her hand,
which is soft like a dream,
I can’t escape the feeling
that my mind rejects the outside world
and all I can see is her.
When I think of her,
I think of us between the sheets.
I think of a window, which the city’s moonlight
can seep through.
I think of the skyline.
I think of long walks, downtown.
I think of Bowery and other places.
I think of the cobblestone streets
and wish I had the chance to be young again
I wish I could rewind the clock and include her
to refill those years without her.
And I wonder
I wonder if I would have ever felt alone
just knowing her.
I wonder if I would have ever felt the growing pains
had I known what this world of ours
would grow into
There is this thing about her
which I cannot say what or how
or if this is her trick or not;
but there is this thing, which makes stop for a second
and as I pause, I try to coincide the moments
when I saw her for the first time.
I think of a dress and the words, captioned in my mind,
which said, “Best dress ever.”
I think of all the places I have seen
and I think of what I’ve seen without her
and then I realize,
I have never seen anything
until her . . .
There is this thing she does to me.
And I can’t escape it.
Nor do I want to