< Volume II: Issue 2 >
It's Fucking Winter in New York City
by Tonianne Druckman
It’s cigarettes and coffee
between worries and words.
I could be talking to you
instead of myself,
but you’re allergic to smoke
and I can’t step outside
every 10 minutes.
It’s winter in New York City.
I won’t make any sacrifices.
I’ve come far enough in life
to know when to give in
and I won’t give in to you.
I don’t have to.
The thing inside of me
that can radiate for miles
will bestow its warmth
only on the hands of those
who know how to touch it.
And it shifts.
It twists and turns and
sits angrily deep within me.
It rages against the lampshade
I’ve been living under
since I came back home.
It curses the shade’s weight
and girth, and then
it shakes.
And the only thing I can do to sate it
is find a worthy pair of hands,
or bathe in the sun.
But it’s fucking winter in New York City.
So it’s cigarettes and coffee
and conversations with myself.
It's Fucking Winter in New York City
by Tonianne Druckman
It’s cigarettes and coffee
between worries and words.
I could be talking to you
instead of myself,
but you’re allergic to smoke
and I can’t step outside
every 10 minutes.
It’s winter in New York City.
I won’t make any sacrifices.
I’ve come far enough in life
to know when to give in
and I won’t give in to you.
I don’t have to.
The thing inside of me
that can radiate for miles
will bestow its warmth
only on the hands of those
who know how to touch it.
And it shifts.
It twists and turns and
sits angrily deep within me.
It rages against the lampshade
I’ve been living under
since I came back home.
It curses the shade’s weight
and girth, and then
it shakes.
And the only thing I can do to sate it
is find a worthy pair of hands,
or bathe in the sun.
But it’s fucking winter in New York City.
So it’s cigarettes and coffee
and conversations with myself.
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