New York, like my heart, is desolate since you left
and the presence of yesterday remains encrusted
to the lining of my lungs.
You’re not here and I can’t think of much else
or find solace in the corners bent on hiding
the face of hope from my face.
I cant stand being inside this skin
you’ve not caressed in an eternity of loss.
I’ve tried escaping through the surface cracks.
Waiting is a foreign game I never learned to play
and yet, waiting seems to be the only way to get
to where love patiently awaits.