Manhattan

The air on the Upper East Side

tastes like old money and almond milk.

Like secrets pressed in linen closets

and vodka in crystal glasses

poured by hands that never worked a shift.

Their children wear Chanel like second skin.

They learn French before they lose teeth.

They talk about summering in Montauk,

as if the word was a verb

only the chosen get to conjugate.

From down here,

I watch them float.

Past doormen who call them “sir,”

past marble lobbies that echo like sanctuaries,

past windows too high for curtains,

because what would they ever need to hide?

And God—

I want it.

Not the money, not even the penthouse view.

I want the permission.

To exist

without apologizing for my shoes.

To order wine without blinking at the price.

To be loved

without anyone wondering what I’m worth.

We come from the parts of the city

they only drive through,

with windows rolled up

and Spotify turned loud.

We eat bodega sandwiches

on steps that smell like piss and poetry.

We fall asleep to sirens,

wake up to rent increases

and ambition in bruises.

But we dream loud.

We read Didion and pretend

we understand pain

like it came in leatherbound journals.

We steal glances

into their gilded worlds—

from the back of taxis,

from behind bar counters,

from sidewalks that never knew soft.

We write stories

because we can’t afford therapy.

We write about their parties,

their art collections,

their gallery openings where no one looks at the paintings,

just at each other’s cheekbones.

We pretend

we’re just observing.

Just passing through.

Just inspired.

But the truth?

We want in.

We want the rooftop gardens

and the slow-pour coffee

and the kind of loneliness

that comes with chandeliers.

We want to cry in silk.

We want to break down

on Persian rugs,

not subway platforms.

We want the kind of sadness

that makes for good novels

and beautiful Instagrams.

And maybe—

just maybe—

we want to burn it all down, too.

Because deep down,

we know:

They were born into the empire.

But we are the ones

writing its history.