Mused

Two a. m. trains on Sunday night run in a different plane, are inhabited by a different people. On the seven train into Manhattan they sleep on their way to work, on the four running local they sit quiet, disheveled, but comforting. How many nights have I walked these streets so late at night and always the city looks out for me, always the city keeps me safe, I write illegible scribbles in a notebook and lose stray pens in my hair. I do not want to sleep now, I want to keep speaking with the city until dawn because at last no one interrupts our conversation. The air is velvet, the cars quiet, at two a. m. the Empire State Building goes dark, I spent a summer in a Greenpoint window watching it sleep and here we are still wrapped in the same love story. It builds its momentum perpetually. 

Perhaps it never ends.