Pizza in Manhattan.
A streetside open air shack
selling slices on the upper east side
grease pools in pepperoni cups.
I take a bite and pass it to him.
He nibbles then puts it down on the plate
and watches me like watching the sun
blaze in the sky.
He looks down.
He picks up my hands like he always does
a cartographer mapping their creases and cuts
he tells me "I like them," as taxis roar past.
His hair reflects neon like watercolor paints.
Our eyes meet again and he grins like he's found
music after a decade of silence.
The city fades.
Our lips touch.