A Love Letter to New York City

To the City that Stole My Heart,

I'm not sure when this will reach you, but the year is 2025. It's not been long since our last encounter. 36 days, to be exact. It's a wonder that a month can feel like a lifetime.

It took only two rendezvous for me to fall for your charm in a way that London has never been able to encapsulate me, even after twenty-five years of trying. And, let me tell you, London has tried.

New York City, back to you.

Our two meetings, each with a certain spontaneutiy that speaks to your character, three, long years apart, are forever etched within my memory.

To dream of the day we meet again is my torture, for I have found myself dependent on your heartbeat. A heartbeat that beats loudly both day and night. A heartbeat that is found in all corners of your being, as the city that never sleeps.

Your skyline whispers secrets that only I can decipher, and I know that, like your converging streets and endless nights have taught me, all of these roads lead to you.

If I'm lost, I know where I'll be found. It will be on a corner of one of your avenues, or in the depths of Central Park. It will be along the Hudson River or wandering across the bridges that connect your pieces so well.

If you're looking for me, search where the lights meet the water, search where smoke meets the air. If you miss me, remember my footsteps in the snow, remember my cold hands in your breeze.

My heart aches, longing for new memories of your sunrises and sunsets. I miss your mornings.

I miss your warm glow and the way that you light up, ready for the day ahead. I miss your breath, cold and fresh, as you muster your beauty for the new dawn. I miss the way that your rivers reflect your elegance.

I miss the way that people speak of you. I miss how your inspiration runs through them. I miss the way, simply, that your presence sparks a realm of creativity and engages a community that spans continents.

Do you miss me?

Do you miss those magical moments spent in the snowfall? Do you miss the days that I spent walking your streets and discovering your secrets? Tell me, does your nightfall still feel as comforting now that I'm no longer with you? Do your lights still glisten now that I'm gone?

I've tried to forget you. I've tried to move on. London has been calling and, shamefully, I've been on the other end of the phone. London is familiar, London is safe, but London does not have the same excitement, London does not have the same passion. London is not you.

These grey days cannot live up to your colours. London's heart has been ripped out and replaced with a Pret.

London is not you.

Occassionally, I'll see you within London. I'll see the vibrancy that I'm searching for. The sign of life that I so desperately need to exist.

I'll see a glimmer of light, a glimmer of hope, that something more exists within this city. Something deeper. But before long, I am reminded that London is not you.

There's a beauty in the way that you cradle juxtaposition. Your frosty mornings are met with bright light. Your loud streets are countered by the softness of your neighbourhoods. You are a city of oxymorons in a way that's both poetic and true.

Tell me, how is your Lady?

I visited from afar, just the once.

To see her stand so tall and proud across your waters was a thing of beauty, excellence and cruelty all at once. Her permanent status within your atmosphere taunts me.

Does she know how lucky she is?

The way that she towers above all those who visit you is a domineering sight for sure. Big Brother's Little Sister, rusted to patina, yet I'm the one who is green with envy.

But I've also had the pleasure of observing you from a distance. From the skies, as they might say.

There's an intricacy to your structure that can only be appreciated from a far distance. The way in which vehicles and people move along your gridded paths, it's not easy to escape the feeling of sonder.

I wonder about the relationships you have with others. Do they each recognise your beauty? Do they each understand you like I do?

They say that the grass is always greener on the other side, but I think your grass is beautifully rose-tinted.

Now, here we are. For yet another time, I find myself pondering, when shall we meet again? I'm sure that life will allow for our third encounter, but timelines are a tricky thing.

The 21st century is not forgiving where time is regarded. It moves too quickly, we get swept up in life too easily. Capitalism calls, and we answer every time. There's work to be done, money to be made, and so life goes on.

It's the same way that I've been trapped before. The endless cycle of life that, for a moment, won't let you breathe. It was always London's criticism. I don't slow down and smell the flowers enough. That much, I know, is true.

I know I'll see you again, but until then, I'll browse through the archives of our memories and keep our spirit alive.

Our love affair is a part of modern history, documented by the endless words that I've gushed over your beauty, told by the heaps of negatives that sit in my cupboard drawers.

Until that day that I cross the water again, until that day that I enter your orbit once more, your memory shall live on within me, within my photographs and within my videos of your all-encompassing beauty.

Generations will be told of your wonder. May it never fade.

Until next time,

All of my love,

Yours.

---

I had a lot of fun writing this piece. New York City is one of my favourite cities and, as a Londoner, I've been exploring the idea of how cities spark inspiration a lot recently, mostly in the form of photography. NYC is exciting, but is the grass always greener on the other side?

This is my love letter to New York City, and it's full of hyperbole and comparison to the other great city that I love: London. But don't be fooled; behind the ongoing commercialism of London, there's still a city that I adore. This one's for New York and, London, you're up next.