And Yet

We took the boat out, sunny Saturday in Chelsea and all the rich white Manhattan yuppies yell insults  at each other on the narrow bike path, but as soon as we left dock, how different the world. We coasted along the Hudson, watching the west side trill along silently in the afternoon, all brick stacks and water towers in a giddy patchwork once the glass monoliths of midtown receded in the distance. How my heart filled, how much gratitude swam behind my eyelids as the wind blew my hair to a mess. How love is not desperate: it only builds and grows.

The words return with the season. The streets return, the hum in the air that reminds me the city never left, all the things that let me sleep well at night sift in through my open window, the world beams at me. Yet some street corners remain shrouded in darkness, some steps I stumble, every few breaths get knocked right out of me. The sunny days try to fill a void that refuses filling, the sweet caresses of the city try to distract my skin from remembering how it breathed under your touch, I sleep well at night but I'm not sure it matters.

How a heart can be so full,
and yet so empty
all at once.