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  • dearabi

Right Guy, Wrong Time.

He’s the one that got away. 

Scorching in the summertime, looking like Spanish Harlem when the breeze blows. I miss his face. Scruffy, yet soft. Rough around the edges, but smooth against my lips. I drink him in small sips to make it last. He’s the perfect view of the Brooklyn Bridge from the South Street Seaport. He looks good from every angle.

In the fall he hugs me, as the nights get longer and leaves turn from green to gold. He’s cool, and crisp. Like a breath of fresh air after a hectic day at work. When it rains, he’s an awning in Chinatown protecting me from dampened spirits and drenched dreams. But he’s also the rain. The dark clouds too. He’s tough love, but nobody will ever love me the way he does.

Winter brings out the best and worst of him. One minute he feels like home, and the next he’s a complete stranger. A whisper in the wind. Cold to touch. I kiss snowflakes in the sky to sooth my aching soul, and look for him amidst the bright lights of Times Square. I catch glimpses of him in the shadows, but he never stays around long enough for hot chocolate. Or ice-skating. Or even a midnight kiss.

I tell myself I’ll get over him. That I don’t care. That I’ll never see him again. But once the ice starts to melt, so do I. And I’m back right where I started; on top of a roof in Soho with Spring caressing my cheek. Or on a little stoop somewhere in Brooklyn, drinking Dominican coffee – light and sweet. It’s a dangerous love affair. A vicious cycle. And I know I should just love him from afar.

New York, I only miss you when you’re next to me. 

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