Joe’s Mundane Epiphany

It is perplexing and trivial, trying to bring my adoration for you to life. You can never expose a feeling, can you? To really excavate it? Live in lights and Broadway blood. It’s stuck under lab substances that wash around our bellies. My smile will never explain my fixation on your vocal inflections; or your sea-green amulets. All of these things stack up and tower like pancake breakfasts, and I have nowhere to put them because you are insincere, my dear. Do you remember the time we drove along FDR drive, the black East River following our twin shadows? We breathed in cleansed air that, for Manhattan, seemed surprisingly virginal, passive. The black water sprawled alongside my window, coaxing a feverish subterranean. You took my hand. You held my hand. The black water sang church hymns. Buildings dared to touch satellites. I opened my mouth to articulate what this was, but the truth was: I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe those rare moments that caffeinate multitudes of dried-up and forgotten senses.