Once I came from a different city. It was more then when I was new. Now I am something like old. Older is more like it. More than the other. Not so much gray hair, gentle eyes. A knack for telling stories. I am not as young as before. That's it. We were never talking about me, though, were we? It was my relation to the city. Very different than just me. Very much a relationship.
I am inside this city. I go to its parks, its buildings, and its museums. I eat at its restaurants, shop at its stores, and I read books at its libraries. Those that know me know that's a lie. The last part. The books I borrow are given to me. When was the last time? A healthy exchange. Read the pages, but particularly the words on them. Communicate. You can read the pages, but really it's all about the words. Inside is luxurious.
There's really just something about the rows of homes. Your feet on the bathroom floor. Who made this place their home? Who said, one day, I come and go from here. I have my fights in here. I close the door in here. I make delicious food here. In this kitchen, I take a soul and fill it. I take a knife to my food and make tears fall from my eyes. I close my door to here.
We leave here and it's forever. We wake up and lost the day before. The day before that is long gone, too. Don't even get me started on last week. What the hell was that all about? My foot is in this city. I crunch leaves how you eat food. Swallowing the season, I am forgetful. What's it all about? Suddenly every day is a Monday. I will catch up never. Every city is different, yet they are all the same. The same for days. All the same.
Some cities have naked trees, others have leaves. Palm trees. I feel sand under my toes, like the crunch of leaves without the sound. Same memory. My skin is softer now. Unlike under the fall and winter. I am dry like the desert. Then and now, but not today. You touch my face and find it the same as before. No, you are wrong. It's still a different city.
Every age, I am here. If here is the present, then believe the last thing I said. Who couldn't? Be here. Be present. Be those things and don't believe me, that's fine too. You are likely older, wiser. Your hand is like my memory. Of long lines and withering. Waiting for the fall. Some might say you are the naked tree. Some might say you are of winter. Here, you are listening. Here, you are with me. Giving shade from the sun. With me. Here, and young.