At some point the City, or I, will have to prove we really want this relationship to work out and are willing to fight for it. At some point it won't be enough just to be here, to be happy.
Fifteen years it's been, since I first returned to New York and dazzled in our honeymoon moments, delirious with the possibilities of having made it back. Every new corner turned was easy then, was another gold coin added to a bulging purse, the setbacks only fodder for emerging grit. I am older now, tired, I take the corners for granted, trying desperately to remind myself to find awe in their whispers. Can I ever find that tingle again? I am older now, tired, I lost too many years to a pandemic and an illness, are these all excuses?
Surely there is magic still to be found in this love story? Comfort in longterm commitment, a security in having seen each other through it. The bodega downstairs drags Valentine's bouquets into the street, rustles up some Pavlovian bell rings to alert dozing partners to fulfill their most basic requirements.
That wasn't what I was looking for, New York. That was never what we promised one another. It's just, I can't seem to remember what you promised, at all.
And I wonder if I just filled in the gaps, on my own.
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