Light Lemonade

Do you remember those spoons which used to change with the temperature so you always knew if your soup was too hot or too cold... or maybe just right? Well, mine stopped changing. I don't remember when it stopped, but it did. And yesterday, no matter how much I tried, its yellow wouldn't budge.

Yellow- like the dandelions which will always be flowers to me, and the sun when she's smiling, and the flash of a moment being captured. Yellow- like the uncertainty of the in between, when you can't decide if you should stop or go.

Should I go?

I've been standing on corners too often these days. There are worlds of opportunity, but I'm too afraid to touch them. Sometimes, I catch myself reaching out, fingers unfurling unconsciously.

Stop.

I love the smell of after rain because it tastes like freedom.

Performance Art

I am opposed to definition. Maybe it's because I'm not good with my words. Wait, wait- I know what you're thinking, and sure, I talk and write, and sometimes it makes sense on paper, but when you're standing next to someone and you can't find the words to explain why tonight you needed that smile or why you feel more connected to the man you passed last Wednesday on the Boardwalk than to the people you see everyday or why everything is perfect but it isn't enough, or really, it's too much... or why I don't know how to finish this thought...

I spent a weekend in New York City to learn that I will always be a tourist. And it doesn't matter how many train rides I take or how many apartments I frequent or how many times I haven't signed my name in a museum's welcome book.

It's funny I suppose.

New York, I would ask you to sit, but you always take your coffee on the run.