I'm lonely. I'm torn. I'm thinking. I wish I wasn't. I wish I didn't miss too many people.

Not good not good not good

Today feels like a Monday and I feel I may blow a fuse. Almost everyone can suck it. This includes some babies and small dogs.

Today I thought I saw you waiting at the bus stop. Glasses and earmuffs and all. I drove by on my way home, after helping a friend try on engagement rings for the first time and dinner where the most satisfying part was the chocolate chip cookie at the end.

Maybe I just have you on my brain. Or maybe I just have relationships on my brain. We never did get to experience normalcy, did we? No, instead it was intensified blips on the graph of life. You will always be my summer fling. I've seen normal through the eyes of strangers and I wonder if I'll see it through my own. I don't do normal very well. In fact, I starting tearing after a conversation with a potential set-up. This is all very strange to me.

Dear New York,

Sometimes, in those rare moments when I force myself to look up from this device, I see you in your entire glory. I see you for the grit and glam, the bright lights that can outshine those of the Vegas strip. I see you for the stuff that poems and movies and photos and songs and history are made of, and I see you for the epithets that were made just for you.

I admit, sometimes I don't see your beauty. Sometimes I don't always stop in awe of the Empire State building in the distance, nor marvel in Central Park summers. But I live for the Bowery poetry nights - the nights that make you feel alive, that awaken the soul after it's been sleeping for far too long. And I long to find the non-cliches you have to offer. Something that makes me feel like I selfishly have a little piece of home.

Because I'm not allowed to say

I miss you.

It is November
And Kate Nash doesn't know it yet but she will love me
We are the only ones dancing while the rest of the music hall is filled with zombies

We dance, and how we dance
Desperate to show her we love her so
And her music
It touches us
In ways we've never felt before
And my hair - I am self-conscious of it
And I'm not wearing makeup
And compared to Kate Nash's red-flamed hair I feel inadequate
But we
We dance despite that
Holding on to the night
Holding on to everything she has to give us before it's all over
Just one more song
Let her cockney accent take us to higher planes

And I think I may love her more than you
But you let me believe that our love is equal because you love me more than her
Even though I have no exceptional beauty to offer tonight

Her voice
I pretend it's like mine
And her beauty
I live vicariously through it for just one night
Let us live in her unconventional beauty
Let us pretend for one night that our love for her equals our love for each other
And we will never have to utter one word
All we have to do is dance

Dear _____,

Today I encountered a man on the subway who questioned the definition of "schlep" written on my bag. I want to note that today is the first time I have used said bag. After debating whether or not "schlep" on his own was written in Hebrew or Yiddish, I accepted a tissue he offered for my sniffling nose. As I was leaving the train I thanked him and he wished me shabbat shalom. Taken aback I said, "you too" in a tone as if I was asking "how did you know?"

Waiting for the next train I mulled over this "random" chance happening, wondering how many people experience these moments daily. I also couldn't help but think if his shabbat shalom goodbye was his way of saying "hey, I'm Jewish too" and all the urges I get to somehow relate Jewishly to chareidi men and women I see on the train. I often find myself searching for my little book of Tehillim that I usually have left at home, knowing that if only I could read a few chapters with the fervor of a yeshiva girl I might win their favor.

Remember that story you told me once? About how a religious man came to the office and for whatever reason something not so ideal happened. And because you are who you are, you wanted to do everything you could to fix it. And after all was said and done, and you knew he would still leave with a bad taste in his mouth, you wished him shabbat shalom as he went on his way. You also joked that it wasn't even on Thursday, that it was probably on a Monday but you wanted to let him know somehow you had something in common.

It's winter in New York. I'm writing this without gloves, my body shaking and fingers frozen from the cold. And I wish I could ask you to re-tell that story just one more time, but instead I'll think about how I'm in one of the most wonderful cities in the world, and even I can't see the beauty of the Empire State Building.