Steam

For a minute, the rain relented. I stepped off the stoop and instantly, a tiny bead of sweat started rolling down the small of my back. New York summer was back. Men in suits looked uncomfortable, college girls walked around Washington Square in their sheerest nothings. MacDougal smelled of concrete and cigarette smoke, of cold, conditioned air blasting out of doorways and that sweltering thickness of the humid outdoors. I walked down Minetta Lane and an old man stood in the quiet alley smoking pot. The sweet smell lingered; the air did not move.

How beautiful this city is, all in itself. With its crabby inhabitants, its tireless impatience, its garbaged streets and exhaustive air. Where standout characters blend in and a million dreams are dreamed, or crushed, or realized every day.

I do not need to visit those unseen corners, experience that thing I've talked about for years but never made it to. New York City is my home. It will be with me always. And I will be back.

Good love, is too good to let go.