Desire

Biking through lower Manhattan, surrounded by beautiful women, wanting all of it and knowing better.

I’ve only got four pictures of you, and your sweaters tell me everything I need to know.

I know you’re barely awake – but when you touch yourself, I want every detail.

Two young blondes at the bar, three older men circling, and me — telling myself I’m not one of them.

I asked, you answered, and I didn’t love the answer. I’m a toddler: if you’re masturbating, I want you thinking about me.

A terabyte of porn on my disk, thousands of women, and I’d still rather be hunting than looking.

Three small scotches in, sad and tipsy at the bar, cataloguing the women on either side of me.

Kelly green bike shorts, a high braid, and suddenly I’m riding faster than I meant to.

I used to check my answering machine ten times a day. It was never about being important.

Every time a woman sends me a photo, my heart leaps – and I stop believing there’s something wrong with me.