New York is my mistress. Her rapturous gaze picked my pocket, pilfered my mind and continues to torture me with unquenchable longing after twenty years; a romantic, lustful mugging. Who knew you could lose your virginity twice. Who knew you could remain faithful in such tumultuous terrain.
She's gorgeous and kind and we play naughty and nice. She's a bitch and a cunt and we argue and bicker. Yet reconciliation is always just around the next corner or during the next concert, art exhibition, short skirt sighting, conversation or meal. Who knew naivete and maturity were kin. Who knew divorce was not an option.
So we're growing older together without getting old. She won't stand for it. She's too ambitious, too polymorphous, too convinced that youth[fulness] is eternal. This temptress, this muse of mine keeps me on my toes, kicks me in the ass, taunts me every waking hour with the intoxicating spice of new potentialities. Who knew you could be drunk when stone cold sober.
Who knew I'd fall prey to the sorcery of predestination.
Who knew. Who knew. Who knew.