A city
Just a few blocks westwards.
I sit in the window and stare at a neighborhood I once called mine; from up here you can see the bright lights of midtown, the quiet courtyards of old brick buildings that lived when the country was new. It’s quiet, so quiet, and I can’t open a window without ruining the central air thermostat, it’s at once a palace and a prison. We walked down the west side piers and I saw my city as if for the first time. Maybe that’s what love is.
Last night, I lay writhing in my bed, unable to sleep, well aware of every lost minute’s rest. The days are long but the life is short. He smiled at me but I thought this is only a means to an end.
It might sound callous. But I have poetry and magic waiting in the wings,
Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same.
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