I bought a bottle of French wine because the woman said it tasted like wet leaves.
It makes me miss the Fall - the smell of pumpkins, two loves ago, cutting a kabocha squash in a cramped basement, a trashcan full of parmesan rinds and purple latex gloves.
Now New York feels like a ghost town: a series of haunts, a supercut of moments that meant the world to me then.
A skateboard. A tallboy. A broken wrist. Cold hands in a cab. Pancakes and black coffee. Pink sweaters and polka dot scarves. We met for breakfast; he was sorry, I was angry. He didn't like that I lived my life back then for thrills.