The horizon of the city shadowed the stars
arrayed across the windshield in the calm of the evening.
His lips grazed my shoulder when he spoke
his breath was warm on my neck.
He enveloped my whole body
though his arms were sprawled along the seat.
Words exchanged while the eyes relinquished their talents in the darkness
enhancing the touch
the whispers
"kiss my neck."

It was as if the music was from within our souls
pounding through each movement
like the blood pumping ardently through our systems.
Every impulse was impregnated with dubstep
the heat of our bodies was the friction of the melody.

We were the music
a drug, a stimulant.
Ecstasy

Rapt in the haze,
the world dissolved
smearing florid patterns over the windows.
When,
in a kaleidoscopic prism,
he was tangible
yet abstract
in the euphoria,
when we were both present
and far gone,
when
the music
and our bodies
were the only reality,
thats when I understood
absolute
untainted
blissful
happiness.

So grand I always imagined it,
a city beyond the grasp of realism.
Famous in it's own glory
An entity that survives in the hearts of its citizens.

Stories told by those who's hearts it has claimed
are presented in the notes of our music
the pages of our literature
and screens of our TVs.

They plant a craving in our souls for that which we will never find;
the bar is raised higher than any part of this world could reach.

It was supposed to be breathtaking -- it was supposed to make you cry out with glee and wonder.
Excitement so rooted in a determined fist that no restraints could hold it.
But it wasn't that,
in fact, it was the opposite.
So human it seems wrong
unnatural
underwhelming.

Broadway is just another street
Times Square isn't bright enough
The Statue of Liberty is too small.

And it shouldn't be
that
this city,
the city of all cities,
is
underwhelming.

**We can't blame the city,
it's been in our hearts from the first moment we discovered the world.
I realize that we could never see the city's glory the way it's portrayed
until we've learned to love the city from the inside out
until we experience the soul of the culture
the people
the music
the colours
the art that is New York.

Then Broadway will never be just another street
Times Square will be brighter than our most colourful dreams
and the Statue of Liberty could never be
small.

So now I leave you, New York,
with the promise of a new perspective, philosophy, and appreciation
of what you mean to your people.

Companionship;
that's how I would paint it.
You are my companion.
A glowing bow of my heart has bonded to yours
so that when I muse over you
the breathing patterns
of a gentle creature
rising and falling in my chest cavity
create that warm, taxing heat
of a muscle striving a little more arduously
for a dedicated cause.
Thats how it feels
and it feels good.

Sometimes, erratically,
I notice my little creature breathing more keenly
and I wonder,
in those moments,
if it's not your own creature
pondering mine.
That maybe there are small orbs of brilliant light moseying down your spinal cord to caress the soul of that creature,
to tell it our stories
share with it our memories,
and perhaps those brilliant orbs find my little creature too.
Travelling through time and space to chance upon me,
to tell me that you're thinking of me.
This must transpire because of our companionship,
what else could ever justify such majestic happenings in this imperceptible world.
So if it is by virtue of our companionship and because you are my companion
then I am perfectly,
divinely
in affinity with that.

The melody smooths over the cracks in my smile
when it shines and gleams through the night.
Sorrows of the past pass a finger over my cheek to remind me of the truths they told,
existing now only in the crevices of my heart.
Bittersweet memories of a love once lost,
meant to live on in a more glorious atmosphere,
dance on my thoughts
like faeries coming alive at dusk.
Honest were the passing moments,
staying only a short while.
So when, from time to time, they turn around and glance back at me
with a gaze of perfect tenderness
I'll grasp their hands and thank them.
It's old pain now;
old truth, none the less.