Sometimes I can’t find my way.
Some days I forget my name.
Every so often I remember that I left myself in New York City.
My feet are barefoot on the spit splattered pavement somewhere on 8th ave.
My legs are crisscross applesauce on a bench in Battery Park.
My torso is dancing to the guitar of the mariachi band on the 1 train.
My arms are hugging strangers becoming friends in lower eastside basement bars.
My hands are juggling portfolios for the office in Chelsea.
My neck is stretched to find seating in that one little place in Little Italy.
My head can’t focus on one thing at a gallery opening in some part of the city I’ve never been and never will again.
My heart is in an old meat packing warehouse on the river at an Alexander McQueen pop up.
Sometimes I think about the parts of me there without me and wonder how to get them back. Other times I know they are right where I’m supposed to be.
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