The glass eye swells; I am The Nocturne
The first of many trains, all the goings and goings and goings - your rumpled white shirt, tucked in, wearing polarized lenses even though the only light is neon. A lady asks for a cigarette with her breasts and we walk the labyrinth to your apartment. You tell me I am a city girl - that I could be - that I want to be. It feels like you pet my hair and hold my shoulders, pinching the bones with your thumbs, measuring, giving me your words by the bale-full.
On your stair-less fire escape there is geometrical deadness and metal like the kind wrapped around my fingers. Your across-the-way neighbor yells hello with her bare breasts. You think she speaks Portuguese. She is French. She has sex for money, she tells us so when we are drinking at the bar you gave a name to. I drink from her straw, thinking it would be elegant to touch the lips of Sabrina for free, a sort of thievery. She thinks you are my lover and there is a weightiness there in her words that sounds like spare sorrow and I think Sabrina is also a psychic and that’s what she meant to say instead.
It is I that fills you in the hot breath of the city and it feels like stagnancy. I feel stillborn and blue. You tell me that I have always wondered – that I have been waiting and I wish I’d been born with more arms, arachnidan. Swallowing you back. No one sees us naked on the fire escape in the city-shade of un-darkness. My breasts say I am sorry over and over, but not to you, maybe to Sabrina and I hope she is looking out her dark window, but we both know she is busy getting paid.