I fall into the city now more than ever.
You hear it coming, the rickety sound of the what might be the most fragile train in Manhattan, proudly and indubitably yours.
Waiting at the track. Toes then heels alternatively pressing down, rocking back and forth along the edge of the yellow line.
“It’s an existentialist thought,” my therapist says.
It comes and goes in waves, and on the better days I begin to break on through to the other side.
Eventually I want to be that person on the train who knows about the sweet spot to stand so you don’t have to grab onto a bar.
I take time to check out the style. I put more effort into my own.
I consider where to live next. Where to, what now?
Manhattan calls me back. The very city that knocked me sideways when arriving from Los Angeles nearly 2 years ago.
We broke up and now I turn back to you, dear Manhattan.
Will you come back to me? After all this time, realizing what we had. Perhaps we simply needed some time apart.
You piss me off and overwhelm everyone. You underwhelm with your fakery and over-exaggerated delights.
But let’s face it – you’re still the greatest city in the world.
And I’ll still hate you again tomorrow.
And despite who initiated the breakup, another chapter will inevitably begin.