the piano feels your fingers through the song,
and I feel the tune all night long,
even in sweeping dreams made of porcelain
waiting to shatter or matter.
we were never brilliant, but we were bold
in a city that didn't see us, so we wrote it and
you danced it, while dealing with hulking lies
that were just a defense of figuring out how to be
in love with someone while being scared.
I wish I could speak French, so I could whisper to you
and tell the world that this is not the end and pretend
that it isn't, but it was over long ago.
I can speak a little Spanish, but I don't have the words
to ask you about life and our love, so I keep the party tongue,
just listening to the wind y tocar el piano, while wondering,
and watching the Yankees game and writing meta poems.