No Sleep Till Brooklyn

I do not know the names of the birds, though I have heard them my whole life. The soundtrackof their songs lays thick in the dawning sky. The promenade is empty, quiet, my drunken steps cannot lead me there straightly but wind their way unsteadily to a park bench. Pictures of club dance floors fill my feed, I could've been there with them, I chose the other direction, why did I? Walking home in the dark night, the trembling morning, the relentless dawn, it seemed inevitable. I heard your voice, that same voice, those same words, it's been a year and I still walk that same path. I crossed underneath the subway station in the Old Town, tried desperately not to cry, climbed the long hill in morning colors, turned the corner to a historic street and all was quiet.

The park bench was void of company, its view overlooking Stockholm in colors of morning, perhaps I stole a lilac branch or two, the scent was too honey-dewed I couldn't help myself. Three hundred years ago people toiled and struggled up this hill and what are our lives now? Our bodies sustained, it is our hearts that break young and never mend.

I stood on his balcony and slowly smoked the cigarette in solitude, looked out over the city, wondered. Was this my home? Was this the city I despised or the one that I had decided to love? It occurred to me that leaving my City was like breaking up love. That I was the fugitive of a messy divorce, and this was me facing this world alone. That the city was my reason for carrying on, and it is no more; I am alone. Lost and drifting out to sea. This is what being on one's own means. I always thought I fended for myself, but I had no idea.

Finally the morning gets too light, the broken lilac branches need their vases of water. I retire. I sleep.

But I am far, so far, from resting.