We walked around Stuyvesant Square in the shadows of the Seventeenth Century to a room with a wound that we watched become worse, consuming its host, bloody, raw, and hopeless. We asked a man we met there about instruments for burning things that grow and die and live again inside of us. We looked to the rooms where we were young lovers. We ate and drank from wells deep in Asia. We walked and we talked over misunderstandings and under the scaffolding under the sun. We drank to the memories of dreams dead and living and futures impossible to avoid.
We listened to a man and a woman describing a child’s game being played by grown men. We held onto each other, or pretended we did, and carried the home in our hearts through the streets, reciting the atheist’s prayer. We listened to pictures and danced with strange creatures that might have been parts of ourselves. We passed by the steel and the flesh and the trees where the sun was so shattered that we couldn’t speak.
And all of the time she knew that I loved her.
And all the time I knew the same.
And we knew even more that nothing we saw could ever change all we had been.