Rose Water

At the fountain at Lincoln Center... Rose water. Literally "rose water." Like blood that has been rinsed out several times already.

Powerless. Isolated still.

I'm back in an old place tonight. Hallucinatory shapes in the scaffolding... a quivering leaf... a dead bird on the sidewalk-- bathed in that pink/orange light. The sparkle. The darkness.

I remember the day I waited here for Narc... how I crossed my legs in those jeans. The boots.

I remember sitting on the floor of his apartment lacing and unlacing my boots.

I remember kissing AIR7 against the stone of Avery Fischer. The biting cold tasted sweet. A pink cheek for both of us.

And that pool part at Amac's with Dominic's friend who just got out of jail and watched me play the piano. At the flush of 18. The vintage dress I was wearing-- the plunging neck and skimming hips. I felt pretty that night. I felt pretty when I crossed my legs thinking of Narc here at the fountain.

I don't feel pretty tonight. I want to feel dangerous... smoke cigarettes. I want his phone call in the deepest dregs of my being.

It's unfathomable-- he has access whenever he wants and chooses not to access.

But Hammer said something to me that I hadn't thought of before-- that I don't respect him. And he must feel it. And he must know it.

I always get upset to think that he doesn't respect me, but I don't respect him either. Am I any better than he is? In the end, perhaps not. Perhaps not...

Tonight is a night to go to the river. But I have to close and go to the "watch" because I said I would.

...Because I said I would...