You know better than anyone

I’m not myself when I’m quiet

Sometimes I run but never out of words

Though lately I’ve been at a loss for what to say

Should I tell you about the man in the stained grey sweatshirt reaching into a Park Avenue trash can

to sip from two lidded coffee cups?

Or the wonderful smell of the shop filled with dusty books

with thick colored spines and faded brown pages?

The violinist on the subway playing for a car full of people staring intimately at their shoes?

My attempt at eavesdropping on families of French tourists?

The dense crowds of the suited and briefcased taking over the sidewalks, emotionless and swift?

Evening strolls through Central Park and the tree branches wrapped in yellow lights?

Maybe you’d like to hear about the quiet I’m saying goodbye to

I’ll tell you about it sometime, when I find the words



à bientôt




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