I am moving to New York City in the spring.
Yesterday, when I sat stoned in your bed at dusk,
the cicadas rubbed their wings against one another
so hard I was surprised it didn’t generate a current
of electricity from your body to mine. Forgive me
for trying to describe rain and only coming up
with an image of the back of your neck, that hollow
full of warmth when the nights are colder than an igloo,
forgive me for cutting all my hair off when you broke up
with me for the first time; an ancient Asian custom
said that women were supposed to chop it off
in order to forget the past and start fresh.
I’ve only seen my new apartment over Skype,
and I imagine sitting on the balcony over the city lights
with a view of Carnegie Hall from my bedroom,
imagining my grandmother as a ballerina
her ashes still dancing in a tutu over the stage.
Because I already miss you, I’ve slept with my pillow
in my arms every night for the last two weeks,
pretending its softness is the curve of your back.
If kisses were apologies, I would be the sorriest person
you’d ever seen.