Purple bottomed clouds in the straightest
of lines that nature can make.
The Chrysler Building shines in the sun,
flanked by the largest cemetery I've seen,
ever.

All of my life I marveled over the fact that
New York allowed that space to be taken up
by people can't even breathe and,
more importantly, can't pay rent.

Today I am thinking about the sound of my downstairs
neighbor's door slamming, amplified by the enclosed
space that was my apartment's stairwell.

Always wondering how I can alternate between
desperately wanting to inhabit spaces previously
occupied. Spaces I used to call my nest.
Twig, by twig. Always twig by twig.
And then desperately wanting to occupy no space at all.
 
Always wondering how I can desire the responsibilities
of being alone but when confronted with them, I shy away.

It's so trite and tired, this overwhelming sadness.
This empty hole that a sense of community had filled.