Our New York memories are stained with the juice from a dozen pomegranates , run through our palms to invoke the spaces of the city as they appeared to us. We live in metaphors in this city, and our history is a metaphor for the best things that could happen in a life. I would be a liar if I were to tell you I didn’t miss it, but lies are sometimes the best ways to get through a quiet time.

This world grows quiet when I am here and you are there, and there’s nothing to remind me of you except these stains on my hands. It’s enough. On a morning when I can taste something sweet in my bagel, some secret ingredient that I didn’t notice before, I can see that there is something in the wind that brings your spirit close to me. This is not a song about how I miss you.

In New York, there is still snow in a corner of Central Park , somewhere that the sun hasn’t been able to reach, and no one found it yet so they could try to sell it. Our lives are there, in that thing that refuses to melt, even when everything else here is designing itself to prepare for a warmer time. I want to remember you in a cold winter, when there were no coats to separate our whispers from each other’s ears.

Sitting in a New York City hotel room , and thinking about the day spreading out to become a night, I think of you when I lace my boots. This will be a night for parties, and strangers will talk to me about my work, and ask me about my inspirations. In certain light, they might see a glimpse of my hands, or I might intentionally let the stain show for a moment, so that the sources of my mystery can open up in a subtle tribute to its metaphorical memories.

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