The Loft.

This is New York City and the ice is thin.

It was the smoke from all the cigarettes we were too distracted to fully put out, or the bed that never got around to being made. It was the ruby-red lights that were poorly strung around the unfinished trim. It was the countless empty bottles of Pinot Noir that we shoved into one corner and proudly called it decor. It was the blissfulness of getting high and dancing in the night to Barry White. It was all the f*****g and it was all the cliche to go along with it. 

It was the struggle of getting out of bed, for fear of facing the street. It was the makeshift tent consisting of old bed sheets that draped down to spiral around our queen mattress; black and thick, to block the sun from disturbing our sleepy eyes. 

It was sound and smell of brewing coffee or morning bacon sizzling in an oiled, overused pan bought at some ghetto market on 5th. It was the dirty dishes that never got done because we couldn’t keep our selfish hands off each other.

Hell, It was those eyes and it was how I never got tired of looking into them. It was those consistently burning and naked thighs that were always wrapped around to warm my cold waist. It was the blood that flowed heavy passion through every pleasing instrument my body had to sell. 

It wouldn’t seem much to you, but it was our home. 

Until that one day when she never came home. 

Now, my cigarettes never foolishly stream smoke from its ashtray anymore and I tore down those ridiculous sheets. I make my bed in the morning and do my dishes at night.

Now, It’s my new pass-time view from my overly-expensive loft in New York City, that offers me a street full of strange and struggle.

It’s the man selling hot dogs for a living on the corner and it’s the half naked homeless man that harasses him as its the pigeon that craps on his out of place winter hat.

It’s the boy who looks no older than twelve that confidently walks home from school and it’s the “sworn to protect” officer that texts his mistress while he drives 15 MPH down the moderately busy street.

It’s the pollution that my lungs breathe in everyday and it’s this city that chews me up to spits me out everyday, since she left.

It’s this damn winter and how cold it makes my skin; its my body and how glass-shattering it feels.

It’s also the raw fact of everyone else’s distress, and not just my own. It’s the scientific fact that our sun will rise and shine on us tomorrow as well as the next. It’s the little boy and the mother he needs to reach, it’s the hot dog man and the kids he slaves to feed and it’s the homeless man and his every second struggle to make it through a cold, cold winter. It’s every godforsaken face in this grid city. 

Yeah…It’s this f*****g winter and how alive it’s been making me feel; its my goddamn legs, back and arms and how resilient they’ve come to be. It’s my heartbeat and how it speeds up and It’s these imaginary pages that I continue to fill. 

It’s this struggling city we all choose to call home.

And It wouldn’t seem like much to you, but you couldn’t be further from the truth.