Of Mice

It was hours later than we'd aimed to go home. We left the apartment together, we returned together; I'd forgotten the feeling of having a roommate. I'd forgotten the feeling of having a home; I revel in the sweetness.

The night wore long, the bottles of wine opened lined the table and we couldn't get up. How lovely a long night in Stockholm, the apartment was beautiful, I contemplated hardwood floors and British design, a terrace in the making.

But they spoke of their lives in New York: old apartments, the East Village mice, the Williamsburg rent deals, cockroach customs and cabs, West Village puzzles. Every sentence made my heart ache. New York left a void in me I haven't begun to understand. It beats and cuts and twists in me like a rusty dagger with a vengeance; I bleed.

It is easier to miss than to love. I make up for lost time; the pain is unbearable.