Certain segments of this city make me sad. Reminiscent in the empty sort of way. I prefer solitude, but only where it’s safe. Only on the streets and avenues on which I can pretend you never existed, and I was never breathless with admiration and amusement.
I hear your voice some spring nights, echoing someplace hollow. You are aching scrapes of metal – the trains that used to shriek me to sleep from beneath my old apartment. I left you somewhere underground.
Not a grave, but not a home.