There is only one way to make love.
This is what I will say to myself, poetic,
wrapped in the ends of blankets and the beginnings of speech.
There are many ways to get you in bed, but only one way to make love.
To you or to anyone, it is always the same.
Different music, different hands, different heartbreaking whispers and whiskers.
But just one way.
The Empire State Building turns its lights off at 12:02 on my alarm clock. Music or silence; it doesn’t matter. The top of it beats on and on for airplanes and blimps and emotional projectiles. The darkness is palpable. This is where your hands stick on the small of my back. This is where New York is flooded with the darkness of the night. Here is where we tuck our heads back and press our palms against one another, fingers slowly tracing through hair, around the hospital corners of the bed. This is romance. I don’t remember what happens next. The ocean of silence, or heavy breathing. I can’t remember.
The Empire State Building is most beautiful in the split second the lights go out.
The night is split in gaping darkness and the heat of anticipation.
I will say this to myself, poetic,
our silence is greater than the darkness.
It could be different. We could make it different, if you’d like.