My head full of music, my heart full of everything else. How difficult it is to put into words the Everything. I came home late last night and the world was spinning as I layed in the bed, and I could not fall asleep for hours, overwhelmed by the streets and the smiles. Overwhelmed by this short week that tore open my heart and poured such beautiful kisses into it. I hurt more today than I did a week ago, but I love more, too. How could I possibly make words, out of that?
Gothenburg, you gave me someone to love
and I really owe you
I go home, to New York, to write. I go home, to New York, because I can't not. I long for my little corner in the West Village, my quiet, safe space where I can recreate myself and become whoever it is I hoped I'd be.
I fold my clothes and place them neatly into my great suitcase. I pack up the girl who loves and cries and feels so strongly, and I put her between wool socks and sparkly earrings. She belongs here, but I have no room for her on Morton Street. I had forgotten how unbearable it is too feel.
Earlier today, I ran along the harbor, staring out at the neverending ocean and breathing in the quiet calm one last time. Coming back, I passed underneath the great bridge. How many times I have run past that bridge before, for some reason always reminded of New York. Running, sweating, panting, and thinking one day, one day I will be there, and that is all that matters.
Today, I ran under it and thought exactly the same thing. I pack up this sweet week, I go home. And that is all that matters.
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