Hundreds

I saw a couple on Saint Mark’s today,

I didn’t like them.

Why didn’t I like them?

I couldn’t tell you.

Maybe it was the way their smiles laminated every time their eyes met.

Those smiles radiated with a euphoric glow, bright enough to even bring hope to the most jaded of social smokers who keep their ashes burning for the boys and girls that left them on read at 6:27 PM.

Their lips, as if laced with a certain mix of opiates and concrete

Addicted to each other whilst seemingly being glued to each other for their own type of eternity,

Stopped the world every time they would lock.

I would rather feel the wrath of a lonely heart for a thousand nights than to ever find a love as seemingly great as that.

Enough about them,

Because who am I to them?

Just another girl they see on the street every time they haunt the east side, I suppose.

I would be the last thing they would bother to see.

The way they looked at each other infuriated me the most.

She would walk through fire,

And he could dance through a blazing flame and his golden eyes wouldn’t leave the comfort of her cooling, safe and dilated pupils for even one minute if that meant he would feel the burn.

If I think about it too much I think I’ll start to feel the burn too.

A burn that’s deep enough to sting when you touch it from four years ago, but not enough to sizzle when you’re twenty in New York.

I tripped on a rock on the way uptown, and now I’ll be embarrassed for three months.

Sitting on the subway, I can forget about my dismay for a second.

Even though it’s only a make believe second.

Another hundred people just got onto the train,

and the others got off.

And another hundred people are sitting down on the train,

while another hundred people are sleeping on the train,

and another hundred people can’t get onto the train.

The drummer boys place their makeshift drum sets in the middle of the car, looking to make it anywhere.

If they can’t make it here, could they make it any where?

I should call my buddy Frank and ask, but he’s got his head in the clouds.

He’s always going on about flying to the moon,

I wonder where he wants to go.

I wonder who he wants to be.

Sometimes I think that I should be asking myself that same question,

but another hundred make believe seconds fill up my headspace instead.