1.
Crowds blur into wind—
I hold your name like a flame
no one else can see.
2.
The train moves forward.
My seat stays cold without you—
windows reflect ghosts.
3.
Your coat still hangs here.
It sways when the window breathes—
a memory’s dance.
4.
Coffee on the stoop,
you once stirred it just so—now
silence takes the spoon.
5.
The skyline still burns
in gold, despite everything—
you’re not here to see.
6.
Rain falls in the Park.
Each droplet wears your absence—
trees nod, knowing grief.
7.
A voicemail I keep
just to hear your voice again—
static, then goodbye.
8.
You loved the street noise—
now I stand on Houston, still,
and miss the chaos.
9.
Your chair stays tucked in.
No one dares to move it now—
grief guards small thrones.
10.
City never stops.
But in my chest, a corner
never starts again.
11.
At the Brooklyn Bridge,
I whisper your name once more—
the wind takes it fast.
12.
Taxi lights flash past.
One could be you, arriving—
none of them ever are.
13.
The bodega cat
rubs against my ankle still—
you always stopped there.
14.
L train howls through dark.
That sound always made you laugh—
now it makes me cry.
15.
At Lincoln Center,
the violins rise without you—
notes bend with my ache.
16.
Someone says your name
and I freeze, afraid to breathe—
they meant someone else.
17.
I pass your old block—
the windows unchanged, waiting—
I walk faster now.
18.
Your scarf on the hook,
still smelling like February—
I bury my face.
19.
The Hudson won’t stop—
it carries time past my feet
as if I’m still whole.
20.
Grief in New York walks
between horn blasts and soft lights—
no crosswalk for it.
21.
We once danced in snow.
Now I stand in falling light,
your rhythm missing.
22.
Your picture on ice—
melting on the corner wall—
you’ve become weather.
23.
He sings in the train.
You would have smiled. I do too—
and then the tears fall.
24.
The crowd in Times Square
cheers while I hold back a sob—
grief doesn’t time out.
25.
I leave a candle
on the bench you loved the most—
the city dims too.
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