of Manhattan on separate mild adventures.

we, in particular,
the rose and the rust,
exist together,
both needing water,
the love of the sun
and simple time.

we, kids in bigger bodies,
with the same curiosities,
and at our worst times
perform an accidental bit self-nullification
while trying to remember
the magic, especially. 

there's also a simple problem:
life, in it's entirety. 
seen through the only tools 
we have to see: eyes.

betrayed by stories,
all we can do is
walk and see blindly,
and give an expressive performance,
terrific and natural.

in New York City,
I spill onto 8th avenue
and continue to die,
killing myself with each step,
each minute, each smile, each frown,
each love, each and everything.