A Fair Game

It's a trick of the lights, waiting for the train to arrive in the tunnel, imagining a brighter light there in the depth but deceived. Perpetually tempted to step into the dark and see what lies beyond. 

I started a new story yesterday, the dusty scent of the typewriter keys offering inspiration long lost and you revel in the delicious catharsis of beating out stories into the night. He calls from France, you remember a panicked run through the streets of Lyon and how different the world looked in youth. How you thought the early years were the summit, when truly you've never been more lost. 

His eyes tug and pull at your heart strings, and you wish you might abandon your half written stories for other futures completely. 

But I walked along Lexington avenue tonight, all frosted skies and twinkling skyscraped lights, and I thought there is no place, there is no person, I could ever love as much as I love walking these streets. 

It's a terrible hand, but I'll play. I may be bluffing, but I'll smile till the chips run out.