Lucy

The gears are rusty, winding themselves around curling irons and lipstick shades, ordering whisky drinks at the other end of the bar and wondering what the point is on a rainy October evening. But you run to the F train like something in your spine knows what it’s doing, you navigate late night brooklyn like it used to live in your blood stream, theres something about muscles reviving with use, fall waits in the margins, the avenues lie quiet on Sunday nights but the bodega florist on the corner will still wrap you a bouquet and Key Foods doesn’t close, this is New York after all, not some little backwater suburb from whence you came. We wax poetic about the city but it’s clear he doesn’t have the language for it you do. 

It’s late and you are anything but tired. 

That’s all New York’s doing. Don’t go getting it confused. The city never goes to sleep 

in you.