the world and words of a writer

gretchen is a writer floating between australia and manhattan

Tag: new york city (page 2 of 72)

heartbreak. three weeks. home.

Namaste.

It’s still surreal that I have had my heart destroyed to this degree, so recently. I’m glad that I img_6411have at least been able to entertain my three-week house guest.

I feel like, as a Poet, I’m allowed to be as boo-hoo as I feel like being today. I dare said that I haven’t taken a hit like this since my first husband.

And that was rough. Continue reading

when brooklyn has your back

img_6829Last night I was in Brooklyn licking raw Luthier wounds. One of my favorites made the evening, like always.

I tipped topless women and laughed loudly. I was twirled to tracks that played on a juke box in a Cony Island bar, catching up with a bartender I used to see regularly.

I had fun for the first time since my birthday. Last week was a little whack. Continue reading

around. it’s hard. opera.

img_6523I was speaking with one of my favorite people yesterday who commented how I haven’t been around.

Truth be told, the luthier fucked up my game for a hot second. So yeah, she’s right. I haven’t really been around. I’ve been out and about – all over the place.

My heart has been kicked around at this point to a degree where getting over another break-up has taken on a new tone. I used to try to think of what could be done differently, or how to fix things. Continue reading

day four. what you miss.

I miss coffee in the morning. I miss watching him roll cigarettes. I miss waking up next to him, which is crazy because I usually refuse to sleep next to anyone, generally speaking.

I miss how my heart drops the second I see him after being apart. I miss kissing him goodbye at the subway.

There’s something therapeutic to me about obsession. People fuck love up all the time. To me, having a lover to keep comes down to one major factor: obsession. Continue reading

excerpt

The neighbors didn’t know if they loved or hated what they were hearing.

But they definitely heard. Because the two of us weren’t quiet.

Like, when I exhaled, the bed frame rattled. And when he whispered, the floor vibrated.

And the entire time, we smoked and drank espresso. There was nothing in the refrigerator, except for dark chocolate (90%!) and champagne. I always kept a fresh glass of water on the night table, the one on my side of the bed.

My spine opened wider every time I twisted toward him.

Everyone talked about us while we spoke Italian to each other; within the August heat of a New York City sun, in the center of midtown Manhattan – not far from Grand Central station – underneath a cloudless sky.

We would speak to each other with our lips touching, a low song that no one else had ever sang to me before.

I only wore dresses. Not very much makeup. Only Chanel lipstick that he picked out for me, and which didn’t usually work out. I ordinarily kissed it off on the first napkin to reach me during one of our days spent walking the city together – before his tongue was in my mouth again.

We talked about family and architecture and traveling, mostly. Sometimes orchestra. Sometimes poetry… (excerpt)

ex·cerpt | noun
?ek?s?rpt/
1. a short extract from a piece of music or writing.

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