My last hours in Brooklyn were spent on Jenn's fire escape, smoking cigarettes and waxing sentimental. It was dark. Darker than any night should be in New York City. In that seemingly isolated blackness, we heard the faint musings of a woman and a man and a guitar coming from the courtyard downstairs. Our attempt to take in every word and note was marked with intense captivation.
I wish I could have captured that moment and put it in a jar. I'd open it every time I forget that pain always has an end.
(Sorry you guys, I'm a bummer today.)
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1 comment:
That sounds like something beautiful. I'd hope you could mail me some.
You write beautifully.
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