The city is my Mother.
I have seen her in such beautiful blooms, draped in magnolias and crowned with stars. I have seen her crawling, bleeding and broken with feeble gasps of pain. I see her in that quiet space, the pause before creation. I see her.
Her roots are in me. I am tethered, tied to her. My thoughts are held prison by all that she is. Her music, that blend of joy and sorrow. Her taste, of the ocean and tradition. Her laughter, the careening notes of the steamboat pipes. Her secrets, the countless streets and alleys bedecked with color and noise and mystery. All these things, they haunt me.
She is my muse. I could write a sonnet, a haiku, an ode to her every single day. Nothing will ever truly express how I feel for her. These consonants and syllables are so hollow, they scatter when I attempt to gather them up, a bouquet of my sentiments.
I will be eternally vulnerable to any mention of her, any vision, any reference. I will always ache for her. I will always love her.
She is my most secret hidden heart. Wandering the corridors of my bloodstream. Pulsing with every breath I take.
The city is in me.
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