Vanessa

City buildings lean forward to listen, but they cannot hear the whispered nothings you tossed around the night before--mi mariposa, mi pajarito, but never simply beautiful. Taxis beep, tourists oo and ah wildly, drills and cranes echo through the Big Apple brigade, as men with hard hats fix the broken streams we swim along. Stepping back for a moment, I search for caesura in the mix of this chaotic composition unfolding before us, while your body spirals downward, drowning in a cacophony of empty orders and obligations. We split at 40th and 5th Avenue. It’s 1400 on a Sunday afternoon. I watch as you mindlessly glide through rows of people, marching to the rhythm you never stopped to hear while the music runs through my veins, and I flap my wings to the spontaneous syncopation of the unplanned day.