Now I am missing the sleepy eyed waking of New York in the morning. The hands shake that light the first cigarette and the pigeons are stirring. He wears last night’s sheet around his middle. We will talk philosophy and the sorry state of the world without looking at each other, at first. Our mouths learn to move again in the rhythm of the new morning and there will be time to stare into irises, when this cigarette is ended.