Take me in like a Guggenheim art piece you’re not sure what to make of yet. Listen for the voice in my stroke lines. Tilt your head to get a better perspective. Like the way I look bathed in this light. Study every curve of my canvas. Stand in front of me for hours. Decide you want to stay. Smile.

Inhale me like a Central Park spring flower. Like summer is just around the corner. Like you know how hot the pavement will get, but like the breeze in my shade. Appreciate the way my roots stand firm. Notice that I am still moveable. Move me. Be careful not to break my stem. Don’t pull at my petals. Water me whole. I promise not to drink you dry.

Kiss me like June rain in Washington Square Park. Slow. Steady. Like you’ll never stop. Like we have nowhere better to be than on each other’s lips. Like we love to linger. Feed my wilting on 4th street. Let your dance do the talking under the arch. We may mistake falling for flight, but right now, I like the way my eyes reflect in yours.

Hold me like a winter coat on 8th avenue when the wind won’t seem to stop. Tell me that you’re not going anywhere. Cover my fear. Know that I don’t need you to survive, but the way your feathers fall on my surface gives me security that wasn’t here before. If your warmth gets the best of me, allow me to take you off. Give me a minute to breathe. I’ll always get lost in you again.

Make love to me like 3AM last call on the Lower East Side. Like you’ve never liked getting drunk, but are willing to make an exception. Get tipsy on me. Like you just need one more sip of my skin. Not sloppy, but safe. Close down the night, but don’t say goodbye. There are blocks, and trains, and steps keeping us from bed, but the tension is fun.

Say “I love you,” like rooftop confessions. Between laughter and a home cooked meal. Slip it in like no one is listening, but it needed to be said. Like it’s only for your ears. Know that I hear you. Wait for my response. It might be a whisper at first, but I’ll always say it back. Listen.

Find comfort in me like 17th floor bed sheets. Like an empty apartment craving for someone to call her home. Like nothing below us matters. Build forts in my chest. Paint the walls any color you’d like. This might not be healthy, but I’ll be your canvas if you let me.

Start to pull away like a just missed C train. Like there’s no going back. Like your destination means more than who you’re leaving behind. Like you’re not sorry. You have no time to wait. 14th street has already forgotten about our downtown kiss. Watch me from the window. Wave. Don’t say a word. This is your choice.

Disappear like free furniture in alphabet city. Know you’ll be picked up the moment foot connects to pavement. You’re an old vintage typewriter in perfect condition and you want someone new to write a story in you. All you need is someone to fix your broken ribbon. I wasn’t able to fix your broken ribbon.

Say you’re sorry like the stranger you bumped into on the Upper West Side. Fleeting. Mindless. With sincerity tucked between your quick steps and sharp tongue so it’s hard to find. Like you have already forgotten my hug, but think my eyes look familiar. You need a second glance, but aren’t sure why.

You’ve always needed the last word.

Written by: Khalehla Rixon

www.boydramaproductions.com / www.khalehlarixon.com (coming soon)

Khalehla Rixon is a comedy writer/producer who likes to write angsty articles and poetry because she has feelings and it helps. She sometimes performs things on stage and daydreams about the day she won’t need a day job for survival.