Letters

A weekend comes and goes in boroughs. The temperature drops 30 degrees, your walk of shame spends an entire day in shivers and borrowed clothes. The factory is half abandoned; you uncover vast empty floors with Manhattan views and dress yourselves with ear plugs, listening to the sound of rushing blood behind your temples. It makes you dizzy and peaceful all at once, everything is giggles. The early hours are like the first bites of a craved breakfast: no consequence, no bitter after taste, the whole beautiful meal ahead of you. The last minutes, on the other hand, are cold and leave you nauseous, trembling on a subway platform in Queens and rolling your eyes that you could be surprised again at the bleeding gashes in your chest.

A train came, at last, rocked me gently as it dipped into the underworld and brought me back to the island, my mainland. The wind was still cold, but these streets are familiar. The grid does not overwhelm me, does not catch me by surprise, the grid knows slow and steady and reliable in ways I still struggle to master.

I go to the boroughs to get punched in the gut. I fear if I don't bleed enough, Manhattan won't hold me as sweetly as it does when I return.