Eleven

An anniversary comes and goes, eleven years of this skyline etched on the inside of your eyelids, I stood and looked on it from another shore but felt closer to it than ever. There wasn't time to celebrate, properly, like you like to do in your solitude, but at the end of the night, on the 4 train passing your first stop ever on 28th street it occurred to you that perhaps this was perfect. I landed in this city, again, early this morning and sprinted right into another day, Madison square park glorious and picturesque like a postcard, the back end of Chelsea dirty and real, Long Island city like a testament that there is much left to discover. It's September before I reach my bed, my dear morsel of space on a noisy street corner in Manhattan, the wind blows cold now but everything, everything in you beats warm, beats frantic.

Beats alive.