Bed-Stuy

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Thunder fades into the sound of fireworks, muted into one another, the lights of the Freedom Tower are visible now against the sky, a muted rainbow sky, dark clouds low, a charcoal smear tests stop the Empire State. The sticky sweet of rain still rests against your skin, soggy. Car alarms and sirens a background orchestra, but there are trees here, too, shadows of leaves that dance across your window, casting reflections the mix with the bars of the fire escape, city, city, nature, city. Strange collisions and mixings. It’s nice to be able to see trees. Trees grow in Brooklyn and in Manhattan, too. So does connection, so does grief and loss and anxiety and belonging.

Two random thoughts: The subway isn’t a solace and is mostly a pain in the ass, but I don’t miss driving like I thought I would. They don’t make thunderstorms in the west like they do here. Thunder? Fireworks? Gunshots? The real American questions as Fourth of July draws near. This is a city of anxieties and revelations and sometimes strange joys and of seeing your neighbor who probably came from a different county than you and wondering what right you have to walk down the street so easily compared to them, and wondering at the same time why you can’t walk alone at night but others have that luxury. The air smells clean, like rain on pavement and the smell of marijuana only lingers a bit from the window beneath the roof, a tinge of cool a relief from the heat that is beginning to settle like hot breath over the entire city.

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It’s strange you once felt like warmth

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The air pricks at my skin like an unwelcome lather of discomfort.
The grass is starting to unfurl its winter coat of dulled amber
for an early spring ensemble of faded green. Dogs bark,
children ride their bikes on the sidewalk despite the cold.
The promise of spring is too enticing. Who am I to resist its call?

The Wasatch Front reaches towards the sky, the snow at the
summits is withering away. I reach towards acceptance
long sought after like the goldenrod emerging through frost.

I remember this time two years ago when we sat together
in the armchair by the front door, whispered promises
of renewal and brushed our fingers together. An intense intimacy
masked by assurances and laughter exchanged
between our mouths like a radio frequency that
is not quite right. A little too fuzzy and cracked.
You know you should change the station but instead
you remain in the comfort of the familiar. Pomegranate soap
and a raw smell of leaving exuded from your thin hands.

When we hugged goodbye, the vibrations between us
signified an ending, a last time. I soothed myself
with signals and signs(delusions) that we would see another spring.