godhead and statue lavender.

molded fixtures and easy apertures; the endless expanses of modern architecture. in upper north-northwestern manhattan (where our parents drew class-lines by compass needle), we used to sit on the sidewalk rolling marbles with our backs to the wrought-iron, plate-glass and granite mountains, knowing the second we turned around we'd lose them all. we had no sense of object permanence.

at sixteen, we got lost in brooklyn, and you were so, so scared; i took your hand and walked you into an easy diner on eastern, where we sipped burnt coffee from chipped mugs and i told you about f. scott fitzgerald and the way it was and had to be in paris, 1919. you laughed when i hit playfully on the ragged waitress (undoubtedly a divorcee with kids to feed) and eased my guilt by over-tipping. we walked a couple blocks north until finally i hailed a cab that we took back home, where your father paid for it, or maybe mine did.

the truth: i know that yours did, cause i sat in the cab waiting for you to come back with fare, thinking about your pale knuckles and tenuous blue eyes, which i never much cared to notice before i cared to notice.

christmas eve 1999, i kissed you under mistletoe, eggnog after eggnog, wrapping yourself up in a christmas bulb boa and laughing at our friends' friends and the expensive trends we indulged. i wore black argyle with green-diamonds that demanded the attention of your hands and cheeks, soft and worth the nerves of being that close.

christmas morning 1999, you knocked on my door with a bow in your hair; i gave you a copy of tender is the night. admittedly, you won the present war that year.

september 2001, i woke in your bed that morning, and ended up staying there well into night, holding you like a coward, both knowing what you were too coy to say, being that try as i might, i could never save you from exploding airliners and unending terror. drawing the curtains because we thought it might block the ash and smoke, but it only made it more ominous, knowing it was right outside your door.

some months later, you told me that love was as dead as art and i couldn't walk you to or from the subway any longer because it was always about getting away, and my existence made it harder. i fought and pushed and wrote you poetry until you went out on me like a light made of neon letters.

in the years since, i left it to the city, window-shopping for company and always settling for a warm bed. girls with freckles and gentle shoulder-blades, attitude problems and discerning taste. i waxed dead on myself, playing sensitive and almost meaning it.

the truth: last spring i walked by our old building and found a yellow cat-eyed marble nested in the flaws of the architecture. if i hadn't let the moment get away i might've forgot it's like you always used to say, love is as dead as shakespeare and the '27 yankees.
this is so good. the rest of the city just backdrops this, it was all inside of two. there are one or two lines you could tighten up but that usually gets easier to see and do after a little time.

such beautiful sights and sounds. gonna read this again and again.
Anatomy Anatomy
Whale Blue Review

Park that car
Drop that phone
Sleep on the floor
Dream about me
Ah, this one is so good. The situations you write about are so flawed and human, and I always end up relating with at least one of your characters.

The ability to love is like a finely honed art or skill, and it's real tough for people to get good at it when they're watching infomercials and counting the ways to get rich, strong, and happy in only 7 days for $9.99.

I think it's pretty clear you're among the best writers on here, so there's really not a reason to knock your writing. But even among the pieces you've posted, this is one of the better ones. Superb.


i think this is pretty good, though it is full of cliches you might expect to find in a piece like this. using cliches here would be fine but there aren't any original twists on them. i will take the time to go through this and point them out if you'd like, but i have a feeling you know what im probably talking about. i love your writing and this wasn't really an exception, just a few things i would touch up on.
I'd rather not critique this and just let it wash over me, and feel the city envelop me, wondering things like how old was I when he kissed her under that mistletoe and will I ever go back to our old apartment and find another flaw in it?