Eves

You look over your calendars, and all these years later the date still stands out. You've forgotten so much of what the world was like then, what the city was like and you barely even knew it. When you first landed, how it was still a smoldering open wound; lately, how it is smooth and clean and the whole city tries to erase that it's ever been hurt, ever been poor, ever been unloved. You preferred its rough edges, its unconventional beauty, its relentless grit, and you wonder why any of us aim for  seamless perfection, that is not what life is.

It occurred to me at the laundromat today that we are, in fact, allowed to live the lives we choose, and not just for now. That love is a choice you make every single day, but if you keep making it, you don't have to let it go. And I love you, New York, as in ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other love, and sometimes in a busy Lower East Side laundromat I am reminded that I may not have to, and it is the sweetest gift I ever give myself.

I am not perfect, New York, but I keep choosing you. I think maybe you are the best thing about me now, you with your hidden hurt, your scar tissue and endless ambition, and me with my endless optimism and thinly veiled dreams of magic. If you will only let me, New York, I think I might just choose you until my days run out.