Closing Time

It got cold again tonight. I crossed Union Square, late, when the square was quiet, and the wind made my lips quiver. All their voices mixed and melded in my periphery, and I tried desperately to sort them out within me. His saying to choose the safe and straight, to abandon the Wild Dream and leave it to the wolves. Her consistent pleading for me to step out into the New York air and let it breathe through me enough for the both of us.

At the noisy bar -- not our usual, because it was full, but we make do despite the loud noise and lack of wood chip on the floor -- he looks me straight in the eyes and says Just do it. I flinched. Remember why you came here, all these years I've known you, and do that.

The walk home was cold.
The company of the city was warmer, though.

On Your Back

(Happiness

Hit her

Like a train on a track)

The countryside still lay covered in snow, silent, white, resting blankets of snow across the industrial behemoths of ages past as the train raced to an end. You step out of the security line at the last second, you have no bags to check, no golden ticket to let you move forward once the snaking shuffle of people closes in around itself. Step quickly onto the escalator and don't look back. You have too many goodbyes in your back pocket, they no longer chafe at your raw skin, no longer leave an imprint of a face on the inside of your eyelid and once those train doors close behind you again, everything is seemingly back to normal. 

The Manhattan skyline approaches like a hazy promise on the horizon. Whispers comfort in your tired ears. Welcomes you home. 

82nd and Broadway

(Run your fingers

Along these paperback books

Until their magic

Puts the air back

in

your

lungs)

of the Sheep

Snow falls in heavy, large flakes, coating union square in thick layers and everyone scatters indoors. You while away the hours with movies and coffee refills, try not think past the end of the storm. The clock counts down minutes, it seems to accelerate at breakneck speed. Unanswered questions lie scattered along the wayside as you race past, trying to figure out which devil will deal you more of the time you are looking for. The city grows slippery with sleet. 

The rest of you follows suit. 

In the Morning

A mad disease pulls through my systems, bringing mayhem and fire where it goes. I breathe in raspy, heavy breaths and he says my skin is a fever. We walk slowly through an arctic Village, changing our minds at every street corner, but the days are long and we can pretend they are neverending.

It's so hard to know what lies around the bend. It may be spring. It may be another icy gust of wind, waiting patiently to beat you off your feet and keep you buried for months to come.

You walk cautiously towards the crossing. Brace yourself for what comes next.

Lafayette and Canal

It snows and thaws, one after another. You sit in the park at Union Square, staring into the sun and smiling at the oddities of normalcy. How that which was once so far away is suddenly near; how everything looks the same in daylight, unexpectedly. Warm your frozen skin against that of another, find it alters the feel of your own. You walk with slower steps, but contentedly. 

She turns a decade and shakes her head into the beer. Says at least I'm spending the night with family, and your heart grows a hundred times at the words. You walk quietly to your new home downtown. 

Marvel at the prospect. 

5:13 PM

(Perhaps you haven't noticed. Perhaps you've been too busy wrapping that warm wool winter coat around your freezing limbs and you think winter will never be over. But the sun set later today than any day this year, shone brighter on the north side of Houston Street and you stood squinting at the stoplight, silently blissful. You woke with the light beaming into your courtyard window and you stretched and yawned as from a deep sleep not only literal in the night. They called you from the west coast and said the first flowers were making their way out of the ground. You know it's too soon yet, but it's coming.

It isn't time
But it will be.)

Get Enough

The air is surprisingly mild, but thick, fluffy snowflakes twirl around the piers and coat the city in a soft quiet. Happy couples stroll through the weather and remark how lovely the day is, despite itself. I run slower than usual, but I feel like I could go on forever, rounding the tip of Manhattan and drifting away to sea. He writes to say the flight is delayed and maybe he won't make the connection in Paris after all. But I've never had an important flight play by the rules, I am jaded and remain unperturbed. The other side of the world seems too far away; you don't understand how it could end up right along your skin, so you don't think about it too much. There's things to do in the meanwhile. The vodka grows warm on your dresser.

There's a tiny Buddha hanging on the bedside lamp. You rub his belly. Decide that no matter the snow, tomorrow you will wake up to sunshine.

Dancing Shoes

I just wanted you to love me.

There's a bottle of vodka at the top of the shelf, you know it lies in wait for you, when all else has abandoned post. He writes to say the internet is down, there's no trusting life in the bush, and you struggle to find music to cut through the static of your Sunday night blues. Another winter storm warning makes its way across the forecast and you long desperately for spring. Your heart is so frail, these days, you think you can weather anything but time and again you are proven wrong.

I inch slowly closer to the typewriter, pleading for solace, but my fingers stroke the keys too softly and no actual words come out. I wait for it to whisper its secrets, but I fall asleep at its side before the answers become entirely clear.

Swing

It's too hard
To love that which will not be loved
To see that which one would rather ignore
To make peace with the overwhelming amount
of things we do not know about the future
To be honest, when the truth is so far from the ideal.

But it is winter, yet. The ice floes in the river move slowly through the wooden remnants of piers past. Street corners grow slippery, each breath becomes a cloud even on the subway platform. This, too, shall pass, and everything looks different in daylight.

I will breathe, and wait, until the sunlight returns. I will carry your fears, and your sorrows, and we will cross the bridges together. You do not know it yet, but everything will be okay in the end.

Eleven Eleven

The battery percent on your phone tick down quickly as the train races through Queens. Your new boots twist in their stale leather; you wince. You tell her to embrace feelings, but tell him you can't accept any, yourself. He looks at you with those soft eyes and you think perhaps you are the one who's been mistaken. Red wine flows through your embers and for a moment, all seems right with the world.

You consider giving in to the floods, bending open your rib cage and allowing yourself to be swept away in the tide. How a Friday night in New York, may save your life, if you let it.

Millions

This is bad news, he says, as you empty another beer and the floor begins to spin. It sounds exactly like something you should stay far away from. The air outside is all ice and hurricane winds; you hurt your skin just trying to breathe. There's a full moon, you see it, it bathes the Village in that eery glow but you know reality is much scarier than anything it can conjure. Let it go for a minute, because it will catch up to you tomorrow and remind you just how far you have to go. February kicks you in the margins, but you refuse to believe he is right. Good will come of all of this, because what else would you do with your time but try?

The hours pass, the days, the weeks. She cries at the other end of the line and you think there's something better out there for you to do.

Wait patiently for it to roar out of you. And until then, you will take what you can get.

Zealot

And I am done with my graceless heart
So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart
'Cause I like to keep my issues drawn
It's always darkest before the dawn

Cure

February beats me to the ground - March is proceeding to fill the earth above me.
(Journal excerpt, March 2013)

The days pass in a rush of work and exhaustion; I sleep at ten and wake from strange dreams not knowing where I am. I spend a dark weekend in anxiety, a ball of hot molten lava searing through my gut and defenses. She writes from across the ocean and misses her home in the City; she sends old pictures of the way things were, and the pain of her departure rips through you across the pages. You lie on your bed for hours, wondering how you will ever merge all the homes of your heart and the questions you have yet to answer. A soft voice in your ear tells you to take deep, healing breaths but every time you try, all you get are tears.

Perhaps this is my automatic reaction. Push myself in the mud at first taste of rain.

But I ran along the river at dusk tonight, the water was quiet and still, it looked soft like silk and I wanted to run my fingers along its surface. At the very tip of the Christopher Street pier, when you turn back, you can see the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Times Square and the Freedom Tower all at once, sprinkled gems in a twinkling skyline, and it filled me with such immense joy that I forgot my despair.

In a life of so much heartache, it's a beautiful thing to be reminded what love is.