the world & words of a new york city writer

gretchen is a writer in new york city

Category: writing (page 7 of 109)

transport delivery

Transport Delivery

“Thanks for not having sex with me.”

There’s nothing quite like a 27 year old lover scorned. We started sleeping together when he was 24. I ended it recently for someone who is 52 and speaks French. Someone who appreciates shoes, smells like tangerines and tastes like vanilla.

Certain things are worth the sacrifice.

I’m on the corner of 44th Street and 3rd Avenue at 8 in the morning, when midtown is just as hopping as the meat packing district at 4am. Every creed and color pours up and down avenues, in and out of transport hubs. There’s so many of us, it’s like no one even notices each other.

“You’re welcome.”

We kiss on the cheek in the amicable style we’re each trying to adjust to. This is what it means to make friends with someone you used to fuck. I’m 37 years old, I haven’t done this to date. I’m still uncertain that I’m going to start now.

There’s something beautiful to me about standing in the center of Manhattan wearing sweatpants I slept in with messy bed hair. You never know where life will take you.

The cold February prick of winter stings my cheeks as I turn to walk home. I try to be a good host and always escort guests to their destination. That’s part of why I love living in my neighborhood, there’s 24-hour transportation that can literally get you anywhere in the world. That’s how I ended up living in Australia for ten years.

I originally left New York City for love and I came back because of heartbreak. Both times I was saved, for different reasons. There was at least one solid lesson that came of it all, anyways; your heart only breaks once.

French Stilletos

I’ve never made coffee in platform stilettos before. The French Connection pair I’m wearing are black velvet with pale pink bottoms. I stand close to six feet with them on. My legs are lean and long like the trunk of a young, growing tree. Oh, and speaking of French…

There’s a French painter in my bed. Since I live in a studio apartment, in a midtown east luxury building – the bed isn’t too far from the kitchen, where I’m preparing his espresso. Continue reading

Beginning Conclusion

Conclusion commençant

Je commencé étirement nouveau
Dans la cuisine, à l’étage.
Je commence à écrire dans différents
Encres de couleur . Violet… Or…
Je commencé à cuisiner des desserts
Parce que la vie avait un goût plus doux
Léchant des cuillères et tenant par la main.
Je brûlé… encens…
__________________Je commencé à regarder la lune.
__________________________________________Encore.

I started stretching again
In the kitchen, on the floor.
I started writing in different
Coloured inks. Purple… gold…
I started preparing dessert
Because life tasted sweeter
Licking spoons and holding hands.
I burnt… incense…
_________________I started watching the moon.
__________________________________________Again.

i’m still thinking in french…

Ma vision effacée. Tout à coup … voir;
Il était au-dessus de moi, déjà à l’intérieur.
Mon cœur a appris à refleurir. Ace de tasses.
Et le ciel est plus bleu, la lumière du soleil d’or.
Inspirez un moment, expirez toujours.
Nuits pleines d’étoiles après des années de l’obscurité –
Ne voyant pas la maladie jusqu’à ce que vous êtes mieux.
Il a enflammé mon âme, une étincelle de pinceau.
“Je suis juste derrière vous,” les premiers mots prononcés –
Tourner la tête à un regard aux chandelles.
Réparation amour comme il n’a jamais rompu.
Mon silence a commencé à parler d’une nouvelle façon.
Lorsque les feuilles engourdissement, puis vous revenez. Sentir…
Redéfinition de quelque chose qui est réel.

My vision cleared. To suddenly… look up;
He was above me, already inside.
My heart learned to bloom again. Ace of cups.
And the sky was more blue, golden sunlight.
Inhale one moment, exhale forever.
Nights full of stars after years of the dark –
Not seeing illness until you’re better.
He ignited my soul, a paintbrush spark.
“I’m right behind you,” the words first spoken –
Turning my head to a candlelit gaze.
Repairing love like it’s never broken.
My silence started speaking in new ways.
When numbness leaves, then you return. To feel…
Redefinition of something that’s real.

baby. i just…

To(o) Much

I turned. My
Head facing a…
Howl. Like
Slowed.
I
Stop(Ped). I rode
A window to(o)
Touch.
He put a…
(Pen in my hand)
(Octave in my…)
Breath. Do you
Know the rhythm.
I. Strike.
Everybody talks
About
How we wrote right
And left
Handed while
I walked. Pas(sed)t.
Baby…
… Slow. (Mmm)
Ocean.
I scribbled. A
Way. That prove:
To,
Much.

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