across New York streets
to David Bowie's "Modern love"
specializing in confection,
she is a borrowed muse, indeed,
softening in the sea of my dreams.
like her, I have love-groped
my way through each waltz,
but we both will no longer.
maybe she is me and I am her,
time aside, existence non-existent,
it is all shattered glass in throats.
still the night is young,
the night is our life,
a swoon-inducing portrait.
young love used to be the cure,
but it isn't anymore,
so maybe old love is.