You leave him at the top of 30 Rock, the relic of a love affair from which you are ready to pick the raisins, all you see now are skyscrapers and sunshine, are little magics of old studios and the promise of Manhattan below. You're happy to take them and go.
In Bryant Park, the folding chairs are filled again, you will never forget how it was to hear birdsong in the apocalypse, and you are happy now to share the space, even with the midwestern tourists bumbling in your way. Your to-do list yells at you, but listlessly, without too much oomph, it understands that what you're supposed to be doing isn't necessarily what you should be doing. Fill your lungs with the city, gather ye rosebuds, absorb every last morsel and bring it to the desert, remind yourself the fire that got you where you are.
The desert whispers promises and starshine, but remember.
You would not be there soon,
if you had not been here first.
The treasures can only be yours,
after someone gave you the map
to begin with.
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