my friend says, looking up
from the light of her iPhone,
as we stand on a dark street
in Alphabet City on a thirsty Friday,
saved from daylight special at 4:30pm.
she is back to smoking again
and we are back to pretending
that last summer didn't happen.
and so we traipse Lower Manhattan
in search of distraction for ourselves
and us, the proverbial we.
I am still tired from my last life
and my feet are still sore
from working the marathon for 16 hours,
yet I follow her from bar to bar,
where she introduces me to friends
with funny haircuts and ironic tattoos.
she knows I will follow her all night
just as she knows I love the snow in Montreal,
and the night will end with us in bed,
only holding and breathing,
wishing the ceiling under which we sleep and exist
were somehow different.