Hold On

Unassuming street corners in Chelsea draw themselves into your quickly expanding map, as it fills out and embellishes itself in giggles and superlatives. You stand back and look at your oeuvre, tracing particularly sweet twists with your fingers, smiling. Stand in thrift store changing rooms and do not recognize the person looking back at you, and yet somehow you know her well. You like her. An actress comes to look at the empty room of your apartment and you think, why not take a chance, why not live a little?

The past writhes in shadows behind you; the New always looks particularly appealing, how pristine it is, how unsoiled by your dirty hands and inability to hold on to the gold as it sifts through your fingers. But on a rainy, humid, East Village afternoon, with your hair in wild curls around your head and the patient patience of 23rd street in your ears, your hands don't look clean, but they look strong. The gold lingers, glimmers across my chipping nail polish.

I'll be coming for your love, okay?
It's no better to be safe than sorry.