They've asked you to explain it, and you cannot. If they can scale the Brooklyn Bridge in the afternoon sun, look at all of New York spread out around them, and not feel giggles grow in their chest like bubbles, there's no making them. You cannot apply logic to love
nor should you.
You climb the four flights to your tenement apartment, clear out remnants of Christmas decorations and construction dust, watch the way the sun sets across the water, how it sets the Manhattan skyscrapers on fire, and you have nothing bad to say about anything. It's been a long time since you felt not just okay, but good. Since you smiled at strangers in the street, since you wished for something bigger than survival. Everything burns around you, but you do not control the sparkle in your chest. It appears at will. You're starting to accept the whims of your life.
As long as the sparkle returns,
sometimes,
you're prepared to live until you
die.
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