All Too Familiar

Camilla Basham

Somewhere in the night

I fantasized
that I was fantasizing about you.
As the sun rose,
I counted the street signs north
as I walked to find you.
Somewhere near 58th
I saw the green of your eyes.
The taxi’s rubber on the damp streets
produced a rhythm in time with my pulse.
The horns rang out in unison with
each small explosion of my heart.
The pavement was soaked with black summer heat
as I pushed through the crowd like a salmon upstream.
My vision tunneled to where I saw only you.
As if in slow motion you ran your hand
through your strangled ebony curls.
As I reached my hand out to touch you,
her red nails, like blood on bony flesh,
appeared upon your neck.
She turned your head to her vulture lips
and kissed you.
I heard the taunting champagne laughs
of Sunday lovers brunching on the sidewalk.
You never saw me.
My hand still outstretched;
I watched you
as you disappeared.