Sincerely, Solitude

My hair frizzy assaulted by this muggy weather.
Feel silly complaining about an Indian summer,
but I was promised fall reds, mustards and burnt oranges
Instead I hear pigeons nesting and the arcid smell of dirty barbeques.
Flames licking up flanks of meat,
the smoke feels like it’s sticking to my skin.

In NYC, fashion week has creeped up on me.
I can’t bare to look at any of the shows,
thinking of spring feels far too forward
and I am limping so terribly behind.

I’m digging my heels in.
Stopping.
Inhale. Exhale.



image by Helene Rydén

Alexi&Coffee

The baked goods sat limp and cold.
The coffee? Watery.
The stale scent of burnt toast hung limply in the air
The rickety wooden tables, held up slumped bodies.
The sharp biting sounds of shattering hearts,
bounced trapped between stained yellow walls.

This was the city’s best break-up bar.
And there I sat.
Staring at you.