Expired

New York isn’t dead
Though I think bits of me have passed away
Expired maybe
My skin shed itself on another coast and now everything I’m allowed to touch feels like something I’ve never known
But who has outgrown whom?
What I mean is, what came first?
I think about the chicken and the egg on my walk home but of course that’s not how this works And wouldn’t it be much more concerning if I felt nothing at all?
it’s me, my eyes. You can blame each one or
All four at once if you’d like
What I mean is that Nothing’s dead only different Except for my neighbor who still shouts Into the hallway, through the windows, past the brick edges of our building
He’s still squealing, ringing in my ears and right where I left him Though I’m sure I’ll miss the slam of his door, the smell of his weed and the pitch of his voice eventually