Saturday Light Naïve

St. Marks remains a pillar of comfort, of reliability.

Lives fall apart in the city, even after years and wedding bands and babies. What do I do now? she says, and I have nothing to say. Black and white is never as easy when his grays have nestled into your every pore. Your life is mine now, my life yours. If this ends here, who are we?

We walk west until St. Marks turns into 8th until it ends and we navigate the greenwich village maze. I cannot find my pyjamas and fall asleep in the button down shirt of a man who is not mine.

Shirt and man, both.