This was written for me by a boy I once knew, in the summer, in New York. I found it on the old-wood slats of the floor, by the door of his apartment, when I awoke that morning. I remember running across 59th Street in the rain, afterward, in a grey silk Parachute suit, shoes off, with no umbrella, laughing into the downpour.
I wish I had been nicer to him at the time.
Youth is not always kind.