NYC

I remember you.

you were the boy with all the city things on your sleeve: coffeeshop music and piano keys, singing a melody strung together by your big, ambitious eyes.

you brewed sadness and wrapped your words in danger.

your attitude was smoking a cigar out my passenger window,

close to me,

in the same seat you liked to lie in.

the same seat you invented your lies in.

your attitude was smoking a cigar

but I could catch your scent from New York.

you smell like secret alcohol binges

and bad investments that caught fire when you were too young.

a collage of Time magazine's worst reviews

and all the "business snakes" my papa showed me.

and you're crying over spilled milk,

but laughing over drunk drivers.

you're the boy that shut off the music in the morning,

but only because of a headache.

and you're the type that cracks 3 aspirin

and never looks back.

you saw me on the road and didn't bother to use the breaks.

bad mistakes have a tendency of walking right into you,

but your consequences seem to swerve.

you put a black hue on december

and wrap yourself in the same color you painted over everyone's problems

just to camouflage,

leaving me with a nail biting habit

and a collection of self-help articles

that only make the tears warmer.

and you might be happy, darling,

but 3 aspirin

won't keep that cigar from killing you.

so au revoir, city boy.

you may be 50 stories off the ground,

but it's colder where you are,

don't forget that.