i remember the day i asked you if i was the rain on your parade and you said no you're the confetti and i thought i love you.

the foyer, part II

it struck me as odd today that any of this could even happen.

and of course, i didn't intend to see your face again, or to be going into work at the same time that you were or to be leaving the coffee shop at the same time you were walking past it with that beautiful woman in a little dress.

and i swear, i scheduled those meetings before i realized they were in your building and i swear i will not be there every day. and certainly i wouldn't have been there if i didn't have a very good reason.

but seeing your face again struck me as odd in the same way that its all odd. i'm learning to give up trying to explain myself in some kind of defense that i'm not crazy.

there is a remarkable sameness about your frame and your face. the most familiar stranger. this familiarity confuses me.

it all confuses me. there's a built up tornado in my chest, a tumbling and revolving of questions and i am trapped by restrictions of being unable to make this right.

today, i sat for an hour on 6 1/2 ave watching your coworker with silver hair and we smiled at each other. send my regards, i thought. no, don't send my regards, they would not be regarded well.

so i went back into the coffee shop to throw away my cup and clean my hands before the long ride home and i thought about the time i that sat there soaking wet, waiting for you. and i opened the door and there you were. you didn't see, but i just stopped, watching you walk away toward something i'm not privy to.

on my way back to my bicycle i walked past the pedestrian throughway and smirked and dared not peer deeper into my memories.

i rode home through times square, down broadway, a remarkably pleasant route when my prayers and pleas for peace and calm and mercy are louder than the crowds and horns and sirens.

i cut east at thirty eighth street until i was let off at the river. and, why didn't i remember that this is the park where we sat and i quietly went over our future and agreed to it? it was something like love and safety then. this was my first time back.

which is why it was so odd to come home to my little sanctuary in the east village and look at my doorway remembering that first week i was home always walking with my keys in between my knuckles just in case.

the foyer

when i saw you pass by me i wanted to yell out hello to you, but instead just let you turn the corner, into the elevator, where i would be following just a couple minutes later.

and how fortunate that i didn't lock my bike up right there, or get caught at another light through times square as to avoid the difficult question of who goes through the revolving door first?

or, would we share? and then i wonder exactly which elevator you went up in and if, when i went down an hour later if you would be coming down for a mid-morning prayer or croissant.

and why, out of the thousands of buildings in new york city do i have to visit this one twice in one week and why is there an increasing need to say i'm sorry, to hear you are too.

i feel this physical urge to list all of the swipes you took at my dignity and safety, to let you feel the weight of a threat and then to hear you say you understand that was wrong and not a good thing and has taken a serious toll on my sense of well-being.

and so i almost ran after you. but to what avail? you might do the same, recount all of the ways i didn't love you and took advantage of your kindness.

it all might have ended in a screaming match at the martini bar a few blocks away where you once called me and lied to me through tears about an affair that you had just to get me to admit that i still loved you.

perhaps i'll see you again tomorrow.

hope

Lord, to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life.

I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go.


Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.


Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.


He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that rules his spirit than he that takes a city.


Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.

And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said with tears, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.

all my waters are muddied and i have nothing left.