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I can't remember the last time I saw you,
all those New York City moments run
together at the edges, like the night
we almost fucked, then stopped and just
held on, you told me you'd been sick,
they thought it was "gay cancer" but it wasn't -
but of course it was, 1981 and all the tests
were wrong. I remember the last deal we did,
three ounces of Hawaaian gold sent to me in Ohio -
My last letter when I hadn't heard from you
in 18 months and I was furious -"Meet me at
La Guardia March 6 I'm going to Rumania"
You didn't come.

Remember someone saying Susi called and Bill's
real sick and you should call him. I was tired
of being rejected and I didn't call. I
didn't call you could have called you didn't call
I would have come - I've thought about it 13 years
I would have come. I wanted you to want me to, to want
to see me wanted you to know I didn't mind if you
were sick or blind or ugly only that you cared,
and still I can't remember

the exact last time I saw you, only I hate Christmas.
Every Christmas Day I pull that photo from its hiding place,
check to see that you're still in it, you and me and
Rockefeller Center in the background. I can't
drink champagne or ice skate anymore, and the one time
I went back into the City someone followed me
down every street. I know, I heard your footsteps.

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