daydream

I daydream a lot about the year I hope to live in New York. New York, or rather the image I have constructed through influencer posts and romcoms and 2 weeks of vacation 10 years ago, seems like my place. In my head, New York is vibrant, ultra queer, massively artistic, filled with parks that break up the concrete and brick houses in tree lined streets.

I just need one year with that city. One year, one year of wild polyamory, of meeting gorgeous queer lovers that will become friends. Of finding fellow artists who will be mean to my face but push me so much further in my craft. One year during which I’ll live loud. I’ll go to the topless gay beach I’ve only seen on Instagram stories, have drinks that cost as much as a bottle where I’m from, and argue with startup millionaires from fancy olive oil or vegan pet food companies whom I’ll end up making out with in a dive bar.

It’s like a drug I’ve yet to taste.

I swear I’ll only try it once.

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