I Wish It Was Manhattan – I Always Loved it There

And I thought that moment could last forever; I’m getting old but it doesn’t mean I am learning from the past.  What’s eternity anyway?  I was reading Byron again, legends die young, the exceptions are just a few – Keith is still alive.

It was 3:00 on a rainy afternoon – I always thought LA wasn’t built for those dirty drops from the sky, but I don’t think my voice has any power up there, where everything has already been written – way before I even had a voice. 

I painted my nails with dark and poured some coffee from the kitchen table; but it was still 3:15 and my eyes were tired, and frozen dry.

You would never understand, or maybe I am wrong; but it wouldn’t make any sense, since my steps are so invisible not to even leave a trace on your holy shroud. 

How do you spend your money when your brain doesn’t know how to bother you anymore?  I don’t pay attention but still, I can’t hear the pleasant sound of silence, no matter how hard I count my breath, and sit still in the early morning.  It’s not a song, just my boring moan.

I tried to write, but I have been writing too much lately, and you barely read the thread of my nonsense words.

When did you start believing that everything could be real?  Because I still think about my broken luggage that hardly closes, and the plane has long gone, but you will be in Paris by then.

I washed my hair and brushed it a hundred times, it’s long now, just like when I met you, under the April rain – or it was May, I don’t remember.  But it doesn’t work, time doesn’t go away.

The horns outside make it look like New York City;  I wish it was Manhattan – I always loved it there.

I was tired and laid in bed, I closed my eyes and dreamed about my lies again – do you still remember how they compelled the world?  You would be disappointed because I missed them until the moment I fell asleep but then again, it was just 4:00, and the wind was still blowing strong.

I read the Bible – they told me to pray, but I felt guilty and ashamed to the sole idea that the higher soul could read my mind, that’s why I refrained myself from keeping the recital going, before even saying my prayers out loud. 

You know my dear, I grew up just like you, and the holy guilt was part of the main textbook, it’s not something you wash away with a rosemary soap – it penetrates inside and leaves you there, craving it and running away from it, at the same time.

What’s the purpose you might know, your wisdom would probably solve the enigma but I’m nothing more than a broken doll with a frozen fire inside.  

Too scared to burn, to coward to melt and die.