my new york city boy lives off of partly loveable secondhand souls thrifted from the sewerage
i forget his name every twilight
his words are already gone by 5am
but he lets me have his body
the knowing hands on my thighs, my back
my new york city boy is a far away ghost
his weary souls always unknown
but there it is
the only memory i hold;
i awake at 4:57 am
nightlife behind my windows down in the streets
some outside led light shines in
and i see my new york city boy
next to me in bed
4:58 am
he's a red head
(a red head, a red head!)
freckles on his pale cheeks
his eyes are still closed
guarded by stars stained lashes
4:59 am
just for a moment
a glimpse of the limbo
i lay back
and i listen
(i listen, i listen)
to his warm, heavy breathing
which shall be my shell in destain
my boy, my boy
my lover behind closed curtains
my no man's face in the morning after
my boy
my soul protector
my deja-vù
i hold my breath
5 am
who is that boy?
why is he laying in my bed?
