when it rains in Manhattan i remember you,
the spoked edges of your practiced poise & charm
springing up like a tattered umbrella
above my girlish (in)sensibilities
and for a moment, i shiverache to hold you close —
before the torrent of my memory streams forth
to stain your once-waterproof facade
like red wine on fine cashmere.

come December, i won’t think of you again.

so please steer clear of Bleecker Street
and the cafe where you locked my gaze
through a watery pane on an April morning,
for i’ve no room for new visions of you
pressed like lingering footprints when my world goes white.

truth be told,
i prefer to save my Winter blues
for safer things
and leave you in my shades of gray.