She didn’t speak until after the bagels,
  The morning after a night where we lay back-to-back,
    As I swirled apologies in my mouth
      Yet swallowed when I heard her heavy breaths.

She didn’t speak until after the bagels,
  The second morning after the wind lashed the frame
    Of a cowering megalopolis lit by headlights, candles, and flash bulbs
      Aimed at kitties in window cages; their eyes locked on the gulls.

She didn’t speak until after the bagels,
  The third morning after the rain marched across Manhattan,
    Tinkling the gutter like chimes of Ireland and rousing the vintage
     Shop proprietor to defy the sky along with narrative logic.

She didn’t speak until after the bagels,
  The fourth morning after the hurricane hid the skyline
    And plonked us in rum and ginger beer, nursing Ivan’s nostalgic heart,
     Unaware that Eros had taken grievance against us.

She didn’t speak until after the bagels,
  The fifth morning after the night of the stacked dishes of meat,
    On the day she gripped romance in the engraved locks of the Brooklyn Bridge,
      And I now share my secrets more than I share these memories.

She didn’t speak until after the bagels,
  The morning after a night where we slept back-to-back,
    As I swirled apologies in my mouth
     Yet swallowed when I heard her heavy breaths
       (Then turned in the bed to watch her
                                              glow in the dark).