A young anarchist once told me that he and I were the only perfect people in this world
Weeks later, I would be lying in his arms, wondering where all the good people go
Down laundry chutes and rabbit holes, oozy, liquefied masses
Seeping through the sewer grates
Down in Gotham’s own hell where the alligators roam

He, the self-proclaimed poet of those who could not speak for themselves
Taught me what it meant to see our world through deep brown eyes

His mind could put old Miriam and Oxford to tears.
Brimming with bountiful hope and brilliance
(waiting waiting waiting waiting)
For the alarm to wake us both up the next morning
The offspring was made. The offspring: an idea
That turned into dream, that turned into song that sometimes turned into nothing at all except a good laugh and maybe a kiss should the feeling arise.
He told me everything I wanted to hear. And everything I hated knowing
The sound of his guitar chords lasted long after he left me for that day.

He quoted Ginsberg and Dylan by the hour
By the minute if the sun wasn’t up yet
But by then I was usually too bleary eyed to tell time correctly
He got tips from gypsies, and was a nomad of sorts
Was it a lack of direction that brought us together?

He sank into my wayward soul
Our bodies intertwined amongst the changing of the seasons
The sun will wake us as we’re sleeping
But I’m quite content to keep on dreaming.