Mirth

Twisting around on a blue leather booth My ears still popping from travel and use I pick at my oatmeal and plump up my lips He gives his hand a suggestion, a wish It's not you, it's New York I miss I've got a problem I think he could fix He seems to undo all my usual tricks But the marks on his belly, the lines I trace Shadow his softness and romantic grace It's not you, it's New York I face I dreamt of him on a JetBlue flight Nursing me into a feverish night Lay on my back, whispering his name Letting him unravel a decade of blame It's not you, it's New York I claim Well, in a thunder breath, I coughed up my heart My life in my hands, a good place to start Little creature born of joy and mirth Loving without the help of anything Little creature born of joy and mirth Loving without the help of anything On Earth It's not you, it's New York that works