On Her Blue Eyes

I can't stay here no more.

Suddenly, how cold the Manhattan streets, autumn winds whipping around every corner. You cross the south end of the island in determination, moving through buildings and architectures, listening to stories and looking up answers to questions you didn't know you had. We made friends with the young Brooklyn waitress in TriBeCa because none of us belonged, and when she left, I felt an inexplicable loss at the fact. You smiled your warmest Southern smile at the waitress and thought New York is the kindest city you know.

But as the wine wore off, the whirlpool that drained behind it scared up demons long asleep. They claw at my throat and tie my legs to the floor until I end up a catatonic deadweight, stuck staring into the void and unsure of what to do next. The cold creeps in through the cracks in the floor.

You should never have stopped with the drugs, the poverty, the terrorizing mental anguish of a life on fire.

At least it was a life at all.