Manhattan: 5 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

It was still raining,
And I can smell
The putrefaction of the streets
From a mile away.
We were 5 stories away
From the ground,
And I was just few slithers
Away from igniting you.

The lights are dead -
I lit a small lamp
So I could see your face
And memorize your features
While you sleep
Underneath the Manhattan hotels -
Plush, sweet-smelling niceties.

The light hit your face
In poetry that only few
Words had to be said:
Like how a kid marvels
At the bursting pyrotechnics
In the sky.

Your eyes were partially opened.
Your sockets twitch vapidly,
And your aqueducts were filled
To the brim – only waiting for
A moment worthy of your
Diamond tears.
Your lips were slightly parted,
And I felt my aqueducts
Capitulate – they let out loosely
Woven, vile tears.
Is this how it works?
To be emboldened with adoration
At someone so majestic
That the very sight of them
Makes you tremble?
I do not know inside
The burning Manhattan rooms
But this I am sure,
This is one of the loneliest nights.

I memorized your picturesque face,
Reticent with the calmness of sleep.
One car passed by, and the sound
Billowed throughout the chasms
Of Manhattan – it resounded unto me.
I am a hollow chasm in Manhattan.
Is this how it works?
To feel alone
With someone else
Who does not feel
The same way?
I do not know inside
The burning rooms
Of Manhattan, but soon enough
I will come to know
The foolhardy answers.

It was like, crafting a weapon
That will be used for your assassination.
To look at her sharp nose bridge,
Her vulterine eyes,
Her auburn hair,
Her pattern of breathing -
I have memorized anything.
And that wry smile that lingers
Loose on her face
I know all of this, too well.

And her shadow
Conjured by the faint light.
It towered over me,
Over Manhattan