So Much Of Our Conversation About Love

In A Subway Car, My Skin Would Typically Fall In The Middle Of The Color Spectrum. On Street Corners, Tourists Would Ask Me For Directions. I Was, In Four And A Half Years, Never An American; I Was Immediately A New Yorker.

The Fruits Of Labor Are Delicious, But Individually They’re Not Particularly Fattening. So Don’t Share Yours, And Munch On Those Of Others Whenever You Can.

The Ruins Proclaim The Building Was Beautiful.

I Push Against The Tree And Run Away, Stumbling, The Unreal Night Playing With Me, Gravity Pulling From Below, Behind, Above, Making Me Fall. And I Run Through A World That Is Rotating, Conscious Of The Earth's Spin, Of Our Planet Twirling As It Careens Through Nothingness, Of The Stars Spiraling Above, Of The Uncertainty Of Everything, Even Ground, Even Sky. Mumtaz Never Calls Out, Although A Thousand And One Voices Scream In My Mind, Sing, Whisper, Taunt Me With Madness.

Only In Novels Can We Take Another Human Being Into Our Head And Create Something Jointly.