brooklyn windowsill

to get even, I spat on her while she slept,
but just a little because I was a coward.
I spat on her floor, into her box of cigarettes,
and onto the shoes she wore whenever she left.
I spat so much that my mouth got dry
and I sat on the windowsill waiting for
brooklyn to rain. while I waited,
I said fuck you to rooftops,
fuck you to night clouds,
fuck you to bakery-flavored wind:
I said fuck you to everything,
one by one, until after a while,
the way I said it sounded musical.
nowadays I’m mostly on beautiful ships
or jetliners going to places with elaborate parties,
but those nights on her windowsill
are what I miss the most.