the walk

We are, if nothing else, a couple of dreamers. Two kids tumbling around these slick city streets, shiny and oily with rain, spotted black with puddles. Knee deep in the proper places. Always past the ankle. Shards of broken bottles wink back at us, laughing as we crunch them underneath our feet. We imagine we are shoeless, masochistic in our desires as we grind our toes into the ground and picture the tiny glass specks burrowing into our skin rather than our rubber. We could run all the way home with bloody feet, the rain washing away all things left behind. Your hair is long and wet and even though you have a hood you won't wear it. Instead you stand underneath the subway waterfalls, letting the rusty water pool inside the neck of your jacket until it becomes too much and you tip over, pouring your collection out and into the gutter.

Tripping, stumbling along, we wind our way through space and time, hands reaching out, faces towards the sky. The trees are on fire in their autumnal glory and their colors vibrate against the clouds, boiling my blood, shaking my bones. We slosh our hands through their golden residue, tiny yellow leaves, wet and dripping and sticking to our fingers and faces, falling down our sleeves. You look like a ghost. Like a weather-beaten angel. Like a motherless child, wandering the abandoned streets of Brooklyn. Post-apocalyptic. Apathetic.

We are now, in this moment, everything we've ever needed. Everything we've ever wanted or hoped to be true. Eyes wide, minds racing.