The mornings are dark now, if you rise early enough, whispering of cold and death and the end of all things. As though we haven't faced that spectre for months, bring us a new horror, this one cannot faze us. I bike across the Williamsburg Bridge at sunrise, the bric-a-brac of the Manhattan skyline glowing in the morning light. I make plans to always rise at dawn but reader, we know I never will. The car moves with ease, squeezing into a spot beyond its means but who are we in life if we cannot be brazen at times. We drive past the old loft in Greenpoint, and nothing looks the same in the old neighborhood. How New York winds and spins, and yet I remain. I was always slow to change, loyal to a fault, but sometimes it does not hurt me. New York, it never hurt me to love you.
In the depths of this cold death, we must hold dear the joys that still move our hearts.
No comments:
Post a Comment