They always put the New York redeyes at the far end of the terminal, a cul-de-sac of late night wanderers. You nestle in among them like nothing is out of the ordinary, like you're heading home for the hundredth time only, only this time home is elusive, is 22 boxes in a storage unit near the water, this time you arrive unsure of the arms that will greet you.
They say a heatwave is licking the city, burying its citizen under the wet blanket of their own ambition, they say You picked quite a time to come. What they don't know is you've come to this city in its darkest hours, its shakiest knees, you have kissed and caressed its wounds and loved it for all its crooked faults. You will endure this heat, too.
When he writes to say, I don't know who I am, you think he'd do best to find out. You think this work is his and his alone. At some point you whispered to the city who you thought you might be, and found the whisper reverberate against its walls until it became a song in your ears you could no longer doubt.
You wait impatiently now for the minutes to pass until boarding.
For the hours to pass until you may be home again.
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