There are people everywhere. 

On alternate days I want to scream at them to get of the way or I want to fuck each and every one of them. 

I pass models so tall they look like aliens from a film; their limbs dangling down as they talk quickly to their mothers and agents in languages I don’t understand. I see publishers and art directors in their fifties, wearing jackets that could pay my rent for a year, and they smile at me when they have the time.

Sometimes the urge to kiss a stranger on the subway is so strong I have to turn away. It may be purple lips and a green jacket or possibly the way she stands as she reads words on real paper while her other hand slips into her pocket. 

Once I hugged someone at the bar before I realized I didn’t know her.  She laughed and looked me up and down to see how offended she should be; I made a joke about a long lost sister. She ended up talking to me as she finished her drink and once or twice our hands touched on the brass rail of the bar. When she left she kissed my cheek.

There are some strangers I see every day, and after years of saying hello I wonder if we need a new word for what we are. Many of them I see more often than my lovers, and I know each and every pair of shoes they own. Once in a while we accidentally discover each other’s names.

There are people everywhere and I want to kiss them and shove them.  I want to hold them, bite them, and laugh at them. I want to take their hands, ask about their ties and sweaters, and I struggle to say hello even when I’m holding the door.

Guy New York