Between The Floors

Our apartment was rickety and impoverished,
almost like an old Michigan lake house
perched above a block in the City.

The glass in the windows had fallen downwards
over the years
to bend the view of the street below and the
twinkling lights of Manhattan in the distance.
The wood of the frames was rotten.

Below, they cooked greasy Thai noodles and
you could smell sweet curry and grilled eggs
in the afternoon when trying to nap between
orgasms on a Saturday.
Cars always stuttered and honked and
scented everything in charcoal.

Above, on a wooden plank floor painted with
lime latex paint was a cheap twin futon bed
where I had her every night to every morning
from the summer of 2004 to the spring of 2005.

The curves of her body filled my hands like
the moon in the night sky.
I breathed her fertile scent. It lived on my
lips and hands. I would go off to work a
mindless job, she still lived in my nose.
She helped me be mortal and still lives in
my dreams after all this is left for the dead,
the dead between the floors that scatter the
wasted hopes of a city in squalor, coughing on
the honesty of sunrises.

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