Monday, March 14, 2011

This city can be suffocating, wounding, in its memories, its countenance, the way it knows me, but I can't say I love any other more.

I wrote you a letter today. I didn't have paper, there was a long layover, so I wrote it out on napkins, stolen from Starbucks. And I was going to give it to you, or read a version of it to you, these things I should've said before. And then I thought, maybe tomorrow, not tonight. And then I landed, and I thought, maybe it's better I didn't say anything at all. But it's here, written out. For when I find the courage again.

No comments: