Twine

Walk east on 12th street, pass a hundred different worlds across the avenues, with reiki energies sinking into the heels of your feet. It's too soon to go home, your breaths are still deep in your chest and you need the quiet streets to settle your beating heart.

Perhaps it is May's doing, this incessant smile on your lips, this spring in your step. Perhaps it's the way the East Village buzzes incessantly against your ear drum, and you want to see every last inch of it, touch every surface and hear every last mad sound of its streets. Your love for New York resurfaces, your love for the Word and you find yourself home on a Saturday night caressing old writings like former lovers you never entirely forgot after all. He calls from the chilly autumn evening while you lie sweating in Central Park, and you no longer remember what it is to miss someone, no longer remember what it feels like to miss a piece, because you miss nothing.

You will walk up and down these streets
(until they fill you)
and they will make you whole.