In the basking glow of Time’s Square:
near all the shops we’d use to tease
each other with.
Too poor for gold.
But I’ll give you the silver moon.
From the small window of room 904.
We fucked till we’d had enough.
And laid down on our sheets
the marriage bed of yellowed white-
cleaned every three days.
In this room I said I loved you.
well, your Soul. (Your body really.)
But either way, the neon did it’s work.
You looked so beautiful in it.
I made you feel like a whore
and you crawled along the floor in spite
towards the door that held your freedom.
And our love affair’s death.
All this and more
Carried on carpeted floor.
Kept within cream, peeling walls.
Our love: 9th Floor, 4th room.