Bridge and Tunnel

Late shift uptown, and when I left the office, the air had that special hum to it. Despite the hunger, the tired eyes, the late hour, I decided to walk.

I passed the apartment where we once lived. It seems ages ago now, when this city was new and the adventure was just beginning. When it was summer out, and warm, and everything was possible because nothing had been proven not. I turned on that same album, walked that same route where I'd stroll every day while I stayed at that friend's apartment in the Old Town. Not a year later--how many beds have I slept in already? The soundtrack felt the same now: Stockholm, this new city, this sad, beautiful, light, cold city. We started out in such a tempest of emotion, Stockholm, where are those feelings now? I feel numb. Perhaps it is preferable.

I crossed over the bridges to the south island. The sun was setting behind that long bridge in the west; gulls filled the harbor, sang their songs of the ocean. The city spread out, climbed upward, sparkled in its hidden corners and cobbled courtyards, we played pretend that there was still adventure and coy infatuation to be had, that we could still play those silly games with one another and believe in a future together. Dusk lay pink along the water. Your voice sang a hundred stories worth telling. I'm still trying to know, which one is mine.