a siren yawns instead of screams?—
a classic New York lullaby.
I can’t move,
so I melt into the dark and watch him.
Three cigarettes. Four. I don’t know anymore.
There’s a pile of butts and ash on the recessed ledge next to me.
Every now and then, he leans back,
then sits up,
then drops both elbows on the table,
then wipes a palm down his face,
then leans back again.
His fingertip draws lazy circles on the rim of one of the coffees.
He doesn’t scroll through his phone.
No one ever shows.
He’s waiting. Alone.
And then he looks out the window.
Not directly at me,
but close enough I stop breathing.
His shoulders tense,
his arm crosses his body
and clutches his bicep,
holding himself together.
I don’t move. He doesn’t move.
Then we breathe.
Inhale, together.
Exhale, together.
At the same time, 'cause he still has me.
And I know it’s stupid,
but I swear he feels me.
Like something in him knows I’m watching.
