Press Play then Read **Lucky to Be Me" by Bill Evans**
Big blue sky, I want to write underneath you along the East River by the Brooklyn Bridge. But for an hour, before passing you on my way to something and somewhere else deeper, I was in the blue florescent light of the train emerging from and digging into tunnels below the diminishing grey light of a cloudy day. I read Houellebecq. I thought intermittently of Lena and her bright golden hair that glows in the darkness—my Tinkerbell, patching the holes on my heart with her little trinkets. Can we escape into Neverland and play together forever? I thought of serotonin lacking in the paths of my cells, in my blood, in my battered brain and weary cortex from which my decisions have been murkier from disillusion and which now endeavors to reconstitute itself with prolonged rehabilitation from a degenerative bureaucracy. I thought of Lësha, as he awaits me, as he refines my ticket to adulthood, my resume, my plaque saying “I am here and I am capable.” At the precipice of modernity, I thought of laughter, that I can still hear it; I thought of disappointment, for all I stopped short of reaching; I thought of hope that the search results from a name will push down the actions of a villain and blossoming up again forget-me-nots from a weathered field of my casualties—
Re: The city is nice this time of year; it’s cool at night, and the river brushes against the cobble underneath the FDR as you lean across the metal railing just inches above. Sailboats glide past, cargo ships have made it through, and the sound of cars in a hurry that you’re not susurrate from behind you. But in front of you,
a slow breath that you did not know was lodged somewhere deeply in you escapes, and the river moves, ripples in a river constructively collapsing into one another, soft palette lights from across these undulations intimately catching their folds, an intimate scene taking place from within the walls of these distant buildings with I love yous, whispered over dinners, over bodies, over goodbyes, descending from their windows and dancing in the lamplights, like echoes of Lena’s voice departing from rooms we never made ours, rooms she described late at night when forever is most possible—
dining rooms where we share our meals,
and bathrooms where we brush our teeth,
and bedrooms where we consummate our love,
and a thousand I love yous in between
the cracks in the sidewalk bloom like dandelions.
We scatter our dreams to the wind and think how lucky it is to be…
us.