On Stoops

I walked past our old apartment today. Past the terrace where we smoked so many cigarettes and dreamed our New York dreams. Past the street corner where the Chrysler building would glow. Past the hardware store; I still have the keys. A man was waiting to get buzzed in at our door, do you remember that door? We had our drinks and made our way to Koreatown. We missed the doorway, it was such a seedy place, but promises are promises and a few floors up lay the air conditioned karaoke room that I'd spent years avoiding. We parted in the street a few hours later, and I don't know that I'll ever see you again. I don't know what my life would look like without you.

The walk home was long; the flatiron lay shrouded in darkness and the Memorial Weekend streets were so quiet. A voice came down the line and suddenly the village was not nearly far away. I sat on the steps and pretended my alarm was not about to ring so soon. A train awaits, a trip awaits, my room is a chaos of bags that can never contain all of New York and I can't get myself to feel tired.

I wish you were here. I wish I was never leaving. I said a lot of things, it was the sake, forgive me, forget this, a million years ago I lived on 28th and Lex and I had no idea my life would turn out this way.

But then, isn't that the best bit? I dreamed New York would return. And I did.

I close my eyes real hard, I hope for sweet dreams anew.