Living with Yourself

The radiator roars to life, mid May and it heard about the snow, heard about the polar vortex, the radiator does not judge or despair, it only puts its nose to the grind stone as necessary.

I judge and despair all the time, and I keep losing track of the grind stone.

There was a moment tonight, as I walked home across the Williamsburg Bridge through the sunset, crying, that I looked out over the city and thought I miss New York. As if I wasn't just a hundred feet above it, as if it wasn't all here and within my reach, as if I hadn't left it so many times before and truly been without, truly been a world apart. We are not apart now, New York, I wanted to yell but somehow I don't believe it right now, when the city sleeps, when its doors are shut and its melody silenced. I am not who I was, New York, is that why you won't love me anymore? Perhaps it's not you, but me who hasn't changed, who hasn't managed to roll with the punches and build a new life, perhaps it is me who is still wading in the muck at the bottom and isn't it pathetic. I'm still dragged behind your ride into the future, clinging on when I haven't got a ticket and all this mud in my face with no one else to blame.

I'm not here 
I've gone away
Don't call me don't
write.