A half moon hangs over the city tonight, crystal clear in the black sky and the winds chill you to the bone. The first morsels of snow washed across the island but were gone in the blink of an eye; the dog was not pleased. We sat at a football game at the unknown ends of Manhattan and felt America wash over us in the time outs. Fourteen years ago the Friday night lights meant everything, and you shiver in rememberance. America. Six years ago in Texas everyone knew you did not belong, but oh, how warm the night, how thick the sky with crickets. They crowded around the floodlights; two dollars at the window, and the home team won.
I woke this morning with the viciousness of a dream lingering on my brow. How blurry the vision, until I saw what had been written across your face for ages. The betrayal stung all day. I thought it might go away, eventually. We spent the evening playing games, warming our freezing skin with silly competition, and the dog scowled when I only came home for a minute, to walk him. The company much sweeter than the night was cold. I walked home from the subway station shivering. It is winter now, it just happened.
I'm sorry I made you angry; I didn't mean that. I just woke this morning with such a tragic reminder, and I want you all to feel as wretched as I do. Passing every local stop and itching to get out. Or in, but how unlikely. I picked up a ginkgo leaf on the stoop in my drunken stumble. Bright yellow, as though the greatest beauty appears right as we accept defeat. Right as we give in to death.
The moral of the story
should not
be
that.
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