i ache for the constant thumpthump of my heels on the concrete and an industrial, impersonal exhaustion and the verb of my eye with my fingers and my camera. i miss seeing things that bend my mind and make me stop and itch and ask what the hell the point is. new light, domestic abuse, falling houses and piles of salt. i liked all the angles of the narrow-walled galleries and the expensive coffee. i liked the nightly drinks and time spent with professors. old crow and cards and walking into a room of glossy-eyed philosophers. closer.
new york tickled my wrist and kissed my neck and promised me so much more next time. i’m sore to go back.