I’ll cry at the sight of you,
but you won’t.
On second thought, perhaps,
tears of distraught,
or frustration,
physical signs of annoyance.
Your thoughts aren’t consumed,
with images of me prancing
around the city and adoring
every work you create.
Strolling hand in hand through
Central Park, with the mixed smell of
autumn and cigarettes surrounding us, just us.
Something snapped, something that
rearranged the warm smile
and kindness you radiate
to the public, that you radiate to me.
Where was that smile
when I needed it most?
New York took it, chewed it up, and
spit it out on the streets
of Greenwich Village.
What’s kept me going until winter
has disappeared into the abyss.
I am curled up, in disbelief,
praying the miracle of
the holidays can fix it all,
bring us closer, to happier times
when we weren’t a part
of the real world, just our own.
Christmas can fix this; it can fix us and you.
Be the miracle I’m praying for this year,
and don’t disappoint.
You’ve already done that just fine.
You are no longer worthy
of receiving a gift, a card,
even a phone call wishing you
nothing but peace and
happiness during the holidays.
Without saying a word, you've
proven this to me.
Your personability and charisma
have diminished since
our last encounter.
Physically, you are no different.
Mentally, you might as well
be a completely new human.
Perhaps this change
is a sign of growth.
Growing out of your past
is something normal,
though I had no knowledge it
would happen this quickly.
If us being apart is
for the best, something that will
produce positive results for
both me and you,
I'll leave you be.
Only one thing can be sure,
is that I'll never look at
New York the same.
It's my city, and yours.
The one thing I can call ours.