Eastern Bridges

Cara, slow down. Books are climbing the walls searching for permanent placement. There are notes stuck to shelves meant to remind you. Growing out of the Upper East like a flower too large for its pot, you need a transplant across Eastern bridges. Underground on subways holding hands and sharing seats. Your beige trench coat falls just below your knee in a black turtleneck, counting the petals of a tulip I picked from Bryant Park. Amidst the city's madness in Central Park's center, we practice mock interviews, and you somehow convince me I'm worth it. I welcomed the rain and welcomed the confines, a night in the two-bedroom watching you attempt Italian cuisine, half-listening to Selling Sunset. I can recall you so clearly in the oversized shirt decorated with frogs and butterflies, falling asleep to true crime, tangled up, and swimming.

I wish I weren't so selfish. I wish I could retain my patience. I wish I had never hurt you the way I did. I drank the whole weekend your mother was in town hiding out on barstools and telling lies. Stumbling down the Lower East, well aware and out of control, watching myself stack drained glasses on your back, hoping the weight is distributed well enough for you to carry while I float weightless and loaded. I feel so at home here. I know none of the faces that pass, and none of them know mine. Perfect camouflage for an invader, an invader on the 8th floor with stars in his eyes and a fatty liver. I'm in on it, I'm in on the inevitable collapse that will level us both, but I hope to spare Brooklyn. 

Cover Art: Brooklyn Bridge - Diana Pigni