This city is an illusion. New York is a puzzle with the last piece that can never be found. Tears fall and create cracks in the pavement. Kisses are made between two people who don't know one another. A welcome is a goodbye. We look at each other and pretend we are actually here. Death is a garden without flowers. I thought I saw you the other day. A tree house. Two glasses of bourbon. The moon illuminates the empty streets. Rain. Drops. Silence is golden. Your love trapped in a treasure chest without a key. All of a sudden I miss you. But the next minute I hate you. Where did the music go? Tell me where the children play. They don't laugh. A broken melody with torn notes. A field with a million roses. Too many seconds and not enough hours. Clouds push against the sky and create images of dead animals. A single candle burns forever. Light. We are the things that nature made, but we are still hollow. Pieces that blow in the wind and never stop floating. Objects captured in a net without help. Without hope. Without sound. Waves. Three. Two. One more empty kiss. A taxi ride back to Brooklyn without you. You're never here. You were never there. Tell me what you think is beautiful. Sweaty dreams of your smile as I kick the cheap linen sheets off my bed. The brown wraps and the zip-lock bag full of dry hash lie next your love letters — your gift to me: Nothing. I never threw them away, but I should. An echo. A tunnel full of heartbreak. Where did my voice go? I don't have a face anymore. Alone. So long. Ocean. We'll swim far away and find out if the earth is round. At a distance standing, covering our eyes because the truth is too much. Walking on water. What is blue and green is truly really black and white because the earth is hanging on the very last thread of your sun dress. I remember. It blew in the wind. I remember. Your red hat covered your head. I remember. It almost flew off because of a slight breeze that passed through our empty bodies. Your oversized sunglasses concealed your eyes. I will always remember. And I held your hand because your heels were too much in the Village. I remember. I remember vividly.
So close I can even touch the memory.
It is so close.
– dw.
