New York City spans hundreds of square miles (for all I know).

There you don’t have to search for drugs because strangers ask you if
  you’re looking.
If you’re from Indiana you say, “No, thank you.”
Your new friends will think this is funny.

New York is an international city.
Kids from many different countries get it on in the park.
At home we park our cars in the country.

Home consists of one room (for all I know).

There you would find a bed, a computer desk, that damned mirror, a
  picture of you, and a box full of old four track recordings featuring
  myself,
Still drunk at fifteen years old, singing about despair, love, and
  suicide like I knew something about it.
You would also find me sweating, my glassy, pescal stare fixed in that
  damned mirror as I listen to those tapes.

My lips have turned pale, blue, and tight from underuse.
I push them together a couple of times to practice and to encourage
  circulation.
I would like to give myself gills.
 

 
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