Hung Over

I walked that same meandering walk through the Lower East Side back home to Morton Street, a reassuring voice in my ear and an evening full of cocktails in my veins. The New York night so familiar, so comfortable. I forget to stop and smell the magic.

There are so many things to say. To digest, to reword, to regurgitate. Make sense of the madness and make note, for future use. But I do not. The words escape my paper and float effortlessly away in the breeze. I will be left dumbfounded, one day when I need their ink in my eyes. I'll be surprised, and have no one to blame but myself.

Time flies too quick. I run too slow. We will be caught up, much too soon.