I was. Thinking in poetry again.
Green-blue constellation eyes. Staring. Back.
I inhaled now and stopped wishing for when.
I straightened my spine and felt my bones crack.
A bounce in my step and new aura glow;
Like there’s no longer a possible stop.
And never invention of the word no.
The expansion of my heart. Stomach drop.
What I didn’t say came out through my pores.
Sunlight showers washing my grey sky days.
Opening windows and taking down doors.
Reinvention of love, finding new ways.
His puzzle piece body completes my spread –
A hydrated desert. Appetite fed.
I’ve been working two full-time jobs lately. One writing, one falling in love. And as much joy that I take in being a professional Writer… the second job is why I’ve been so scarce.
I actually took the D train to Brooklyn for the first time the this week. Anthony and I decided this is a more practical choice from time to time opposed to an $80 return cab fare. Although, as my boyfriend puts it, “40 bucks each way to get us to each other in twenty minutes is nothing.” The subway is an hour.
I’ve never had an official boyfriend. It’s really fun. He always asks, “Do you need money?” when another car adventure comes; he brings me flowers every time it’s his turn to visit Manhattan; I wear his clothes everywhere; he’s a gentleman, always.
If I don’t marry this man, I’ll be shocked. Certainly it wouldn’t be the first shock I’ve endured – but it would definitely be one of the greatest.
I’ve never looked in anyone’s eyes and actually witnessed my future before. The way he speaks to me, looks at me and silently dwells around me is the greatest level of divinity I’ve experienced. It’s like ever single element in my life came together.
There’s an ongoing joke between my people and I about my ex husband collection. How I never date, I just get married. I think the last time I had a boyfriend was in high school. So now, finally, at 37 years old – I have a boyfriend. An exceptionally hot boyfriend, in fact.
My boyfriend’s parents are from Italy, he has four siblings like I do and he’s quite fond of the puppies. He and I have plenty of jokes about how I’ve been to Brooklyn more times in the past three weeks than I have in my entire life.
My hot boyfriend prefers whiskey and smokes two packs a day. He talks to me on the phone for hours. He usually calls me four or five times a day. He never texts, and I love that. Sometimes I feel texting is the final demise of language art.
Although I have sent a few ripper texts in my time…
My boyfriend’s name is Anthony. We have the same taste in music. He opens doors and pulls out chairs. He’ll probably read this one day and it will make me blush. I wear his clothes and the secrets between us are so tightly squeezed between my lips that they increase my blood pressure and make my heart beat faster.
Anthony is my favorite boy. His essence of everything startles me into silent smiles which he often replies to with, “Everything good, doll?” with this Brooklyn-Italian twang that makes me pant.
The stories and the poetry have kept me completely occupied in ink. We’ve already joked about marriage in a very serious way.
Lucky number three.
But enough of all that talk. Aside from falling in love, being in love and yearning for this piece of perfection that the Universe finally decided it’s time to deliver, I’ve been listening to this:
I never want to be categorized as anything based on what I’m doing in any given moment. There are two things I’d own up to – being spiritual and being a Writer. But I’m not trying to create a “spiritual writer” brand by any means.
We can taste spring here in Manhattan today, it’s going to be 20 degrees C, around 72F. I’m about to get ready to go read the Wall Street Journal and observe the concept of money moving on Earth. Then I’ll write about it.
I have a really interesting job for a beautiful company, it’s a blessing – really.
I hope you are all well. I promise my next book is really coming soon. It’s gritty and complicated, like me.
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
FollowMeToNYC is a creative processing ground which expresses individual ideas that often change with the tides. Naturally, these ideas do not reflect those of any of my employers, or anyone else you might see me wandering down the street with one day.