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Confession 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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