One autumn morning a man and a woman walk to work through the streets of New York’s West Side. They’re not together. He at times actually follows in the distance as their paths merge, separate and converge.
They’re in love. With each other. But out of the crowd their faces remain anonymous as they’ve never met, unless in text online.
Sometimes I feel like a moon shot spat out of a gravitational lasso, missing a planetary caress while I’m trying to be the best person I can.
Integrity, honesty—they’ll flatten me when their gift to some is never enough. So there I lay listening for my heartbeat finding stillness instead, a state of illusory void I acknowledge. But I have to get up from this mat. Where is my saving hand?
It had been a tough couple of weeks. One of those periods when your head fills with cobwebs and the strategic picture flashes like a poorly fit neon sign pulsing an annoying buzz each illumination cycle. “Eat at Joe’s” it might say for a brief time but you’d know the gravy would be lumpy and the ketchup rimmed with crust. So you walk by.