On the AirTran to JFK, terminal 8,
I am thinking about you.
The scenery changes from Federal Circle to Terminal 1.
The closer I get to the water, the easier it is to breathe.
What happens if I don’t figure things out before August?
Will I go back to the restaurant during school?
It isn’t you. It’s me.
I can’t stop reading Bukowski.
I am walking toward you,
across the floor.
The New York I am leaving is grey,
thick with pent up rain.
I’m hungry, and tired,
there are less trees more buildings.
If I don’t,
if it doesn’t,
but no, that’s not it at all.