You look magnificent, standing tall in front of me. Simply, beautiful. I’m scared to touch you, risking to ruin your perfectly constructed appearance. You’re just like a solved puzzle: every part of you perfectly related to the next. You make sense as a whole, yet all your individual parts are absolutely essential. Your tallness – that’s your defining trait. No one will ever be as tall as you. They once tried to knock you down, before I really knew you. But you didn’t let them. “No one can fuck with me,” you rebutted. Your beauty is a special kind of beauty. Peculiar, I might even say. They either hate you or love you. But, those who love you completely abandon themselves to all that you are. We’ll never find a greater love in our lives.

You dream big. No, you are a compilation of satisfied dreams; that’s why those following their passions, those bursting with aspirations are so utterly attracted to you. You give us hope.

You’re never too tired to explore new things, meet new faces, or simply be. When I’m with you, all I want to do is scream! Do! Be! You give us the strength to never be strengthless, to enjoy now – because now is always something different when we let you lead the way.

Mostly, you are everything at once. Most of us are defined by a specific style, character, weakness, passion – you challenge that belief. You are proof that we can be multifaceted, never subscribing to a single way of life, never having to appreciate a single way of being while rejecting all the others. A city filled with a collection of opposite lifestyles.

But memories – oh how I love the way you deal with them. You are the ultimate incorporator. Although memories become who you are, you don’t let them obstruct your way towards the creation of more of them.  No matter how bad the memory, the fact that it happened, it existed!, oh that’s beauty enough. And when the memory’s a good one? You will forever boast your pride. What I love is when you are part of a memory. You give it a spark, an edge, a uniqueness. You give it that thing, that small thing that renders all memories… well, memories. A sugar-coated nostalgia for all that was and that never will be again – accompanied by the certainty of all that could  still (will?) be.

Yet- I am forced to watch you from afar. Live you by day, dream of you by night, and fuckin torment myself on when, exactly, I’ll be able to live here again. Oh, New York. What a tease.