San Francisco East Coast Blues --
New York I'll always be dying to be with you. We're older now - you still rough and tumble, you with the brand new condo, haircut. But, I see the dirt under your nails and the callus on your forefinger, the ink stain on your middle and thumb.
Why don't we get a chop cheese and a bottle of something and sit on that park bench, watch the little kids play hoops on the asphalt; their hands too small to palm a basketball but their faces all Steph Curry? (or Lebron, I don't care who you shouted for but we both know it 'aint the Knicks & Nets)
New York lets be honest. We'll never be together again; maybe save the occasional passing on the way to my best friend's wedding. Your familiar face, I'd spot in a crowd. I'd duck into a corner store, pet the cat, slip out with a bouquet of blue and purple daisies - bodega flowers my favorite. You remember?
New York, remember when I showed up the second time: hair cropped, bruised and blonde and chain smoking? I sat on the fire escape of Jen's apartment - corner of 2nd Ave and where again? - lit up a Natty that I paid too much for out of celebration (and a 15 dollar farewell to smoking) and listened to the bar sounds and traffic, the swelter and conversation. Do you remember?
I had so much faith then, that you'd be mine again. Sitting on that fire escape, breathing breathing finally -
- I honestly believed that I'd come back home.