I remember your green eyes,
and the way I stood on my tipytoes to kiss you,
One hand on the small of my back, the other cupping my cheek.
That was in your kitchen.
I remember that night at Central Park,
And the way you kissed me after not seeing me for three weeks, tender but urgent.
The East side of New York City holds a lot of memories for me of this past summer.
Sometimes, I think, if I were to walk on 23rd street again, would I still find my way back to you?
Sometimes, I think, one day we'll randomly see each again, maybe on Astor Place, or 14th street.
And maybe, we'll give each other another chance.
Guide that inspired this poem: