It’s 11:37 pm and there we are,
two gray sweatshirts doing a dance on the sidewalk in front of 510 Manhattan.
Steps one, two, three.
Heavy breathing, stolen eye contact, run in place, pogo jump, split
squats, recover, repeat
This mundane moment requires so many millions of reactions to go just right,
for the body to not collapse under stress, and yet
one we are likely to never remember again
The truth is we’re both dying,
holding planks with forearms in the cold grit of the concrete.
Some people hurtle towards death at a faster rate than others
and we never learn why,
and we do all kinds of things
to try and prevent it
Meanwhile, my heart is skipping beats,
and it’s not because I’m in love with you
I don’t know if I am -
I think it might be something better than that.
And for once, I don’t want to let go.
I don’t want to forget
that one time we worked out in the cold
by the light of your street lamp,
me in your sweatshirt, silent.
It’s after midnight now and our sweat is freezing to our November night faces,
panting, looking at each other oblong and
10 minutes ago, a man in a low rider slowed down
to stare at us out his car window - what are two people not sure of
love yet doing,
working out at midnight together,
not knowing the world will be shutting in soon
(for how could we have known the deaths and fear to come,
and that we would survive it)?
In that very moment, all I know is this:
in 5-30 more minutes we’ll be four flights higher and three doors in
status-post half a quart of yogurt for you and a few brownies for me,
your roommate in the living room laughing at Jeopardy,
me burying my nose in your neck in your bed, trying to get closer, to sync our heartbeats, or maybe
just to get stuck in traffic with you in a dream some years in the future.
How ironic when I learn two years later that traffic is the thing you hate most
And the surprise that I could love you more for it