My first and last apartment building in Manhattan.

The cryptically embraced pedestrians passing by with the soundtrack of cars and traffic lights interchanging for display always provided the blanket of idealism after a long day.

The dingy subway that beautifully laid out the path to standing and thinking on cue as Saxophone players performed the tunes of your heart without asking for receipts of life’s woes as strangers pretend that the glue in your stance is the affection of their nonchalance.

Give me the air that envelops me when I reach the last step and notice that day has turned to night. The fiesta of brightness guides my steps as the pulse of the bodegas and the strollers filled with groceries begin to stream my pathway.

Milk, tomato sauce, and all the essentials that make the skyline beckon with the hue of acceptance are just minutes away.

The redness of wine that seeps through the pores of the loyal girl with the aged view that still refocuses to highlight the reasons why you gave it all up for a love affair that was one-sided.

You celebrate the times when walking past construction that has now been realized convinces you of all that was harbored in a classroom far away from the blessed chaos that was supposed to heal you.

Yet, here you are broken.

The most expensive code in Manhattan is bedding The Only Living Girl in New York.

She is holding a glass that has shattered many times without breaking. She is peering through the ducts of fireworks that sprinkle the sky and provide the recognition that almost two decades couldn’t amass.

The shadow of experiences served under the regime of hope and hopelessness are the bedtime stories of survivors who dream of urinating the salt escaping the wounds of time.

Oh, how it stings when you sleep.

When you awake, there is the sun gasping the cylinders of your studio with exhausting pride. The joy of the space around you never overwhelms the crevices that shut you out even when the tide is high and your voice rises against the wave of formality.

The last day was crippled by sunny skies and a runway that was cleared for takeoff, because of the dancing clouds in the midst of bitterness.

To return to the beacon of Soho, Harlem, The West Village, Alphabet City and the Upper East Side — sprawled for the glory of descending back to the whiplash of what will never be but sadly has already transpired — is enough to relieve the drunken taxi rides that delivered me in real time to my doorstep — as every monument that whizzed by — paid homage to the star of a moment that has now arrived.

I’ll take Manhattan with no cheese. I want the original shit with extra onions.

Juggling Wordsmith. I have a lot to say!