Dearest City of whatever people like to call you,

You drag me by my hair and most times, you don’t let go, so I’m assuming there’s a clump of dead ends attached to your fists. The smoke that exhales out of my lungs floods the streets and people are trying to quickly pass through it because they have somewhere to be. I should be somewhere as well but I’m always running late. There are too many dogs to pet and buildings to count. There are too many sunrises and sunsets and my camera roll is filled with nothing but these finds. Just to be clear though, I’m not complaining.

The view from my bedroom window makes me feel like I am on top of the world. I look down and try to count the bodies scrambling from place to place, bar to bar, avenue to avenue. At night, I stare at the Brooklyn Bridge and wonder which cars are going home to be loved and which cars are going home to be alone with a drink and a cigar. My windowsill is cluttered with old books, dusty candles, and dead roses from boys who didn’t have enough courage to stick around. In the corner, there’s a sewing machine and a Van Gogh puzzle. My floors are the perfect shade of wood and my bed sheets are as white as my porcelain skin. This is home, I think to myself. This is home, for now.

I find the most comfort in the nooks and tiny crevices of small coffee shops. New York coffee tastes like waking up before everyone else. It tastes like cuddling your pillows and reading a book. It tastes like you’re about to get a lot done before the sun even thinks about rising. I mix in the milk and sugar and lose track of time and sometimes even my mind gets lost in circulation. I think this is all necessary though because New York, you have the tendency to make people feel like their entire life is a rush. Sometimes I feel like I need to be the one to drag you by the hair and slow you down.

I go to the bar to grab a drink and end up staying for three more. There’s a group of men screaming at the TV and a couple fighting in the corner. This is always how the night starts off regardless of what place I walk into. I am asking for extra limes while trying to ignore the boy who is asking for my number. “Come on, baby. Don’t be shy. I’ll show you a good time”, he says. Little does he know, that’s what they all say. New York, I am in lust with you, but your cat-calls make me feel like a piece of meat for men who don’t even know my first name.

Once I am buzzed, the city looks like it’s on fire. I whistle for a cab and ask the driver to take the long way home. My nose is pressed up against the window and I am counting which lights are on and illuminating from the apartment buildings.

Are they in love or lonely, I ask myself. Maybe they are both. I slip my keys into the lock and turn slowly to the right. I get undressed, step into the shower, and stand there for ten minutes as the water hits my face and washes the smell of booze off of my skin. By the time I get into bed, I am too tired to think about all the people I miss. This is a good thing. This is a very good thing.

I’m not sure if I moved to this city to run away from something or run towards something. Either way, my mind, body, and soul ended up here and they are having a fantastic time. New York, I want to thank you for giving me the space to have temper tantrums in. I want to thank you for the nights you had to walk me home because I couldn’t stand up straight by myself. I have to give thanks to the street art and sarcasm. I have to give thanks to the 24/7 convenience store on the corner and the boy who came up to me in the market and told me that my lipstick turned him on. New York, you drag me by my hair and my heart and sometimes I wake up in the morning wondering where I am but I know that I am home.

I am always home.