I think it may be jealousy, but this fog that has sprouted from the inside, my inside, lingers without promise or reward. Looking through the pictures I see it. I see him, I see him absorbing you, absorbing you into the depths of love, of love intoxicating, bright, and day-drunk - like we were when we walked the concrete.

The toast with slices of avocado and a cup of coffee, the dinners, the poetry. The things you want, and the things you deserve become mere reflections in your mirror and you smile a smile that is you best, and you become the best you can, and you grow - you grow just as much and even more than myself or the self that dreamed of Lucerne and Everything Bagels. The self that walked the beach at daybreak, the self that slept soundly through the night.

It was in the backseat of a car that was going North, and in that car I erased your happiness because of my loneliness, because of my existence. I can't go back, and I can't hope to recall your smile and the light that shone through your eyes and through the highline that day.  

I think I've rediscovered fear and loathing, and you have continued to rise - to rise and to love. And love was your favorite sport, and it is your favorite religion, even with espresso stains on your teeth and sunburn on your cheeks. You love the air as much as you love him - and your sister, and your brothers, and your mother, and your father, and maybe a little of your love that's left for me. But I was too busy staring at the rooftops and the crying children being scolded by their mothers.

I thought I lost myself when I lost you, but now I think there is no future to begin with; just brighter lights and your laughter sometimes resonating from the low hum of the traffic and the bottoms of empty glasses hitting the bar.