Lullabye

Summer lingers, even after its official end. New York takes on its normal air of impossibly thick humidity and damp skin in freezing subway cars. I ran along the river, late to avoid the beating sun but the promenade was full of people, and a jumbled breeze swept into the West Village streets. The Standard Hotel rooftop bar twinkled atop its heavyset, communist block of a building.

There was a moment today, as I stood at the 14th street station (sweat trickling  at the nape of my neck) waiting for the 1, when I looked at the slow-moving sludge between the rails, and heard the sounds of a mad man clapping along the platform, that I was reminded of the magic of this city so vividly. That even in the regular comings and goings of a Tuesday night, with nothing but chores to do, there can be a moment when the mere truth of one's being in this one space is enough to make the hairs on your arm stand on end, send a shiver past that spot behind your ear where everything important gathers.

You are my sweetest downfall. 
I loved you
first.