on quite possibly the blackest day We ever seen 
i’m talking, black like oblivious to snot stains black. 
i’m talking blinded by a galactic hood, night’s dust in your eyes black 
even on that day, i could see how much i love you. 

We were all twisted with a similar eye-strain
to the one We are blinded with today 
awe in Our eyelids, closing them  
fear in Our pumps, passing out. 
you know, death stuff. 

on quite possibly the blackest day, i saw your swagger
like the beaming planet in this intergalactic darkness, 
and took five steps to your wrinkly face. 

and you twisted with your own eye-strain, 
because hey, that day nothing was okay 
so i felt it all again. 

but for a split second, it was just me and you,
far away from those looming shadows.
it was just me and you, in your musty 2×2. 
nothing but tin pan alley and a merlot. 
your eyebrows shot up,
curled lips and raspy excitement, 
as you disclosed your loves in various forms. 

me, needing family so much and finding new ones. 

i don’t want this to be an ode to nyc,
because fuck if that island isn’t an eyesore,
with the way it circles all vision back onto itself,
but yeah, nyc is part of the equation. 

nyc is my 102nd floor vision, 
you, me, 
(and the rest of the cast, 
cocktail astrologists, pin up astronauts, and well paid space creatures), 
we see all the tiny bulbs that make up this great big galaxy. 

anyway, thanks. 
thanks for the clap clap on more thick smoggy nyc nights
than you even know. 
thanks for all the illumination.