There are several ways to express my love for New York in prose.  I can write a well thought out declaration to the city that birthed and made me who I am, but somehow that doesn’t seem sufficient. More than anything else, it’s a feeling best captured by the creaky, wayward notes in Amy’s songs.  Jazz-the pulsating, rhythmic, and beautiful calamity that encompasses the passionate madness of New York.  Each syncopated sound perfectly encapsulating all of my experiences from Franklin Ave to West 66th Street. I spent years roaming the streets alone, having a private romance with my city. The city was mine and I belonged to it.  As the years went by, I started thinking: What if it were ours? Experiencing the city with someone else felt like the perfect capstone to my geographic romance. Then I met HIM. He was different than the others because he was a product of this place too. We both understood that this place had a magic that was bigger than us, a magic only us native to the city could properly revere because we could feel AND live it. It was in us too. Thus, we heralded one another as magical beings, and suddenly those notes from Amy were amplified. Once wayward and random-they now made perfect sense.This is the language you use when there are no words to describe a love that’s beyond corporeal. Funnily, the demise of our relationship has only left me with good memories.  Despite the bickering, breach of trust, and miscommunications, the lingering understanding that we come from a place that inspires love leaves me no choice but to be nostalgic.

I loved him because he was me. I loved him because he was jazz.  I loved him because he was New York.


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