Remembering New York | 2.11.21

I found myself pacing into yesterday. Familiar motions in an empty house. The reality of leaving, of another night without you, echoing one foot in front of the other. Where was the encouragement when you were dying? 

It was nowhere and all around. 

 Who knew that hotel rooms and hand sanitizer would be part of the pandemic plan? 

I opened the door to soft music playing. It was dark. Familiar. And utterly it’s own. This isn’t NYC. This isn’t good-bye.

 Take me back to NY. 

Where I was 19 and you weren’t dying, alone, surrounded by platitudes. 

Take me back to NY so I can walk in your footsteps and in mine again. 

Take me back to NY where twenty years evaporated and life goes on.

In a moment.

In a heartbeat.

Mutating its’ way to extinction. 

 And I don’t ever want to see NY again.

False promises and broken hearts. We never belonged there did we? 

Or maybe we were just too late. 

 I could’ve walked for days if it meant another moment with you. The nights, the lights, the nights. I felt helpless, gulping down fresh air for us both. And you lay there. A prisoner in your body. And I paced. I paced into tomorrow without you. One foot in front of the other. Marking my own death map.

 They say that’s all it takes to live and to die. 

 It took me a while to leave you. Your ashes felt comforting and ancient. There was so much that I didn’t know and all that is left is three pounds of answers. This is what death looks like. Three pounds of infinity.

I’m taking you to the stars, my love. There is nowhere for my grief to go but up. Will you walk with me? Will you hold my hand? Will you pace with me in the dark?

I feel the pull. I need to take you to the top of the world where it all began. Leaving the ending behind. One foot in front of the other.