That I'm Strong

Another earthquake hits the little country at the top of the world. His words are few and far between, but you forgot what they meant to say, anyway, and  you spend your evening reading history books about an Alphabet City that no longer exists. I ran along the East River last night, and watched Greenpoint in that magical twilight that only lingers in New York City, remembering a sweltering summer spent on the rooftop of the linen factory, watching the city spread out before us and only thinking When can I arrive at last? All these years later, and here I am, still, safely nestled in the avenues, and I never want to be anywhere else. (I told him I had to choose eventually, and all he said was Why? It seems silly now, but the alternative had never occurred to me.)

The air turns sweltering overnight, textiles stick to your skin and you wonder how you'll ever survive a summer without water. But in your inbox lie jewels of airfare, promises of fresh air and salty breezes against your cheeks. Perhaps you can have it all, and at the end of the day, a bed at the corner of 4th and 2nd, a quiet space that loves you more than you know how to love yourself, and perhaps you don't have to choose eventually.

Or maybe you chose long ago,
and you're living happily ever after
with the result.