A love letter to my ex
These days I have trouble finding the line between volatility and vitality.
Just a few letters, syntactically.
The difference between being delicate on the cusp explosion and full to the point of overflowing.
A glass beaker filled with unstable glowing chemicals and a porcelain cup overflowing with love.
The problem with new York city is that it is too convenient a metaphor.
It's so full of grief and joy and death and life and poverty and wealth and fear and hope.
I don't have to feel when the city feels for me.
I walk through the streets with a blank cardboard mask.
The problem with new York is it's so full of grief and joy and death and life and poverty and wealth and fear and hope that
I feel it all.
Every smile, every tear, every house fire, every pet rescued from every house fire.
I weep on the subway and laugh on the sidewalk.
You taught me it was ok to hurt
But I taught myself the difference between hurting and wallowing.
You taught me it was ok to be a contradiction.
But I taught myself the difference between contradiction and hipocracy.
You taught me how you love me.
But I figured out how I wanted to be loved.
I miss you. I'm glad you're gone.
I am but dust and ashes
God created the heavens and the earth just for me.
