Outside my window, spring thaw is dripping from the windowsills upstairs. I've seen that apartment, how she keeps it light, airy, painted white. A woman with her life under control, a woman whose clothes are clean, a woman who doesn't wake in the middle of the night with the Madness of the city coursing through her veins.
I walked back downstairs to my shoebox after we spoke, saw the cacophony of colors, the piles of books and papers and dreams gathering dust on the shelves, sparkling despite the temporary neglect. I saw my own wild hair in the mirror, how I have crammed so many hopes and dreams into these split ends and never been sorry about it. I moved into this shoebox on an answered prayer, I bought this pink couch like a pat on my own back, 15 years ago I came to this city and I have never been sorry, New York, do you hear me?
I have never once regretted loving you in this all-consuming, wondrous, wild way I do.
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