New Hampshire sinks into your frazzled edges, fills voids you didn't know you had. You try impatiently to force a peace, a purpose, but that's not how it works, and you should know it by now. A third season on the road, summering across America, escaping into the outskirts. They offer you an apartment in Brooklyn, everything about it should have you saying yes, but when you drive out of New York along the FDR early one Saturday morning, all the shoulds wash away and you're left with the same inexplicable yearning for Manhattan that pulled you across oceans time and again and you were never sorry.
I gave you my tired, my poor, I promised to want for nothing if only you'd love me, and I mean it still, how can I mean it still? There's something kind in a love that refuses to abate.
I have lost so much, New York, but I have yet to lose you.
So though the road leads north,
I'll be back when the nights get longer again.
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