The black wrought iron railing
supports my mood
as I stare down metal steps to
the Manhattan cellar restaurant.
At my fingertips, I sense your hand in mine
as we walk those steps for the hundredth time.
I hear our laughter –
deliriously lost in that crowded space.

I want to sit at our favorite table
with its vinyl-covered chairs
and search for you –
a speck of DNA left behind in this
world. A mitochondrial membrane
I can hold between my thumb
and forefinger,
even if my eyes cannot see it.
I want to crawl on the oak-stained floor
and find something of you that stayed.

But I have to leave this railing now.
Late-night diners are pushing past me
as life goes on and I go with it.
Crossing the dimly lit street, I shuffle
past a stretch of chain-link fence,
its repetitive diamond pattern
spilling into shadow.
A commercial zone in front of me
is closed – steel doors rolled down,
covered in Gothic-style graffiti.

Tagger graffiti is a curious art.
There is no money to be made, no
gallery shows, little fame to seek.
The canvas – city brick and steel –
is tagged with logos and murals
sprayed by street artists,
leaving a signature not easily removed.

And maybe that’s what’s left of you –
a tag I cannot shed.
A liquid vicissitude sprayed
with a propellant into my gut,
pigment residue slipping through
the intima of my veins – obsidian red.

I am marked by you.
Internally inked.