1st Avenue,
The rise of my fall,
And the street I fall back onto when all else fails.
Ist Avenue.
The holy land of seventeen.
Time wanders away,
And lends her helping hands to someone else.
A different girl, much more deserving of her patience.
I was never one to wait.
I was never one to want to worry for more time;
Then the train came.
Will the infrastructures of these people’s lives hold up in 50 years?
Will my children know my mothers favorite diner
That I would frequent in the womb?
Will I be able to live past my growing pains of you,
Or will I have to cultivate another place, the same as you have done to my 14th Street?
A new city of your 20-something voyeuristic journey.
A new home for your theatrical rhymes that doesn’t yet fit the beat of my city.
But can I conceive of myself without you anymore?
No, and there is nothing worse than a painful truth,
Nothing more heartbreaking than the breakage of what was me before all of you.
If you told me of my past,
I can’t say for certain who
would be in those stories.
A girl without a face,
Only a name
with a street
attached.
