There’s a prisoner in Rikers who hasn’t seen the sun since July. I don’t want to write. I don’t want to feel anything but joy. Don’t want to work on anything but how to build ceramic walls as I take a pottery class for the second time. I want to go on more dates holding hands, snuggle up to more no-longer-strangers in dimly lit bars in the East Village. More speaking French on first dates. More picnics in more parks. More fucking during the day behind sheer curtains over open windows. More watching a temporary lover walk naked from here to there, the bedroom to the kitchen and back, drinking water and bringing me a glass to quench our inevitable thirst—a quick break between all our not-love-making, holding, crying. And after, I want more people singing to me in languages I can’t speak but understand.
We’ve been waiting for you. 🖤