new york calls to me in rain drops and puddles–
the pit pat tapping call to something more.
like your name on my lips, each pause intended.
each drop more important than the last.

but I know your song.
I know its volume and its capacity to fill.
it is not the rain which never ceases.

I am not suited by a place.
home is not tangible.
yet it is so easily described by tangible things.
things like you, new york.
and the next best thing.