Ampersand

Port Authority runs like a dusty labyrinth, it turns people gray just from walking through it. There are no windows, no signs of fresh air or towering cities, only meandering caverns and dark doorways to unknown destinations. I ride the escalators to the Greyhound gates and there she is, like no dark winter months have passed, like no thousands of ocean miles; a bucket of beer later, I forget they ever did. We bring another six-pack to the stoop, and only after the cops have fined us do we go inside. The stories amass.

New York City takes on the same magical air it always does when I am trying to show it off. The summer sunlight makes the brick buildings hum, the Hudson glitter. She buys me dinner at that restaurant that makes me smile, and a hundred drinks later we saunter down the west village streets in revered silence. I show her where Woody Guthrie lived, the same building where we drank all that wine on the fire escape, you remember, and she shivered in awe. New York will do that to you. I read old journals from that other town and all they say are how much I wish I was here.

I don't think of you as much as I used to. Your smile doesn't burn my carefully constructed shelter like it did, and I am grateful for every day the air is not knocked out of my gut at the sound of your name. I wish you nothing but blue skies. This city will weather the storms in your wake, for me.